ESSAYS 



ON THE 



SOURCES OF THE PLEASURES 



RECEIVED FROM 



LITERARY COMPOSITIONS. 



SECOND EDITION. 



PRINTED FOR LONGMAN, HURST, REES, ORME, AND BROWN, 
PATERNOSTER- ROW, LONDON J 

MANNERS AND MILLER, AND ARCHIBALD CONSTABLE AND CO. 
EDINBURGH. 



1813 



PN^ 



&7 r 



J. M'Creery, Printer, 
Black-Horse-Court, London, 



/ 






CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Essay I. . . On the Improvement of Taste 1 

II. . . On the Imagination, and on the Asso- 
ciation of Ideas 17 

III. . On the Sublime U 

IV. . On Terror 95 

V. . . On Pity 121 

VI. . On Melancholy 174 

VII.. On the Tender Affections 215 

VIII. On Beauty 243 

IX. . On the Ludicrous 304 



ESSAY I. 

ON THE IMPROVEMENT OF TASTE. 

WORKS of eloquence and poetry, when pro- 
perly conducted, afford a most elegant and de- 
lightful, and not unfrequently also a highly pro- 
fitable, entertainment. But it is not by the 
untutored that their happy effects will be fully 
experienced. Our natural relish or taste (which 
word we employ in the present essay to denote 
merely our capacity to receive the pleasures of 
such compositions, and of the fine arts in gene- 
ral) is susceptible of far greater improvement 
than may at first be supposed: and we shall 
endeavour to point out the circumstances on 
which that improvement depends. 

Here we may first attend to the importance 
of making ourselves acquainted with produc- 
tions of the highest excellence. 

B 



2! ESSAY I. 

The ruder essays in the fine arts have attrac- 
tions sufficient to gain the inexperienced. The 
picture on a sign-post must be miserably exe- 
cuted, if it does not give pleasure to him who 
has never seen a better painting. A peasant is 
delighted with an old-fashioned garden, where 
the walks are all disposed in straight lines, and 
the trees and hedges trimmed into regular 
figures. In the same manner, the wisest and 
most delicate of our forefathers, in the days 
when the more perfect compositions of antiquity 
were unknown, heard with pleasure the rough 
verse, and the coarse, unnatural stories of their 
minstrels. 

Now when our attention has been long con- 
fined to inferior productions, we are not only 
contented with the inferior gratifications which 
they are capable of affording, but we even grow 
attached to them, and are disappointed and 
hurt when we do not meet with the same grati- 
fications in more perfect compositions: for 
when once we are accustomed to any pleasure, 
however trifling, we do not easily bear to be 
deprived of it, and are sensibly disconcerted 



ON THE IMPROVEMENT OF TASTE. S 

when it is not found where ouY habits lead us 
to expect it. It was owing to this influence of 
habit, that, even after the works of the great 
authors of Greece and Rome were restored, 
men could not be brought all at once to for- 
sake the absurdities of the Gothic productions. 
Ariosto, with all his genius, would have had 
fewer readers in his own age, if he had not 
retained (I do not say the romantic wildness, 
and the romantic manners, for these are charms 
which ought not to be abandoned; but if he had 
not retained) that familiar use of the marvellous, 
and that intricate manner of telling his bundle 
of stories, which, by taking away our solicitude, 
and distracting our attention, diminish greatly 
our interest in the fate of the characters, — a 
pleasure so much superior to what we can re- 
ceive from those childish artifices. 

It appears, then, that we are not likely to be 
well disposed for relishing first-rate composi- 
tions, if our attention has been previously con- 
fined to common productions. But we have 
moreover to observe, that a short or slight ac- 
quaintance will not be sufficient to open our 



4 ESSAY I. 

minds to all the charms in the higher specimens 
of any of the fine arts. This will be evident 
from the following important consideration. 

Many of the most affecting circumstances in 
the objects of taste, require to have our atten- 
tion particularly and habitually directed to them, 
before they produce any considerable impres- 
sion. 

For even when these circumstances are such 
that they cannot fail to be distinctly apprehended 
as soon as they are presented, yet many of them 
are apt to be considered too slightly by the un- 
tutored. Now there is a wide difference in 
point of effect, between simply perceiving an 
object by the senses, or simply conceiving 
it in the mind, and directing to it the whole 
force of our attention. How many things are 
daily and hourly perceived by us, and how 
many thoughts are continually passing through 
the mind, capable all of them to make the 
deepest impression, and yet actually leaving no 
trace behind, merely because we do not allow 
or accustom ourselves to dwell on them. There 
is scarcely any person, who, in reading Thorn- 



ON THE IMPROVEMENT OF TASTE. 5 

son's Seasons, will not find several beauties in 
external nature pointed out to him, which he 
may perfectly recollect to have seen, though 
not to have attended to before ; but which, now 
that his attention is turned to them, he feels to 
be productive of the most delightful emotions^ 
A common observer overlooks in a landscape a 
variety of charms, which strike at once the eye 
of a painter. 

It is easy, then, to conceive, that they who 
have their minds directed to the more refined 
excellencies of eloquence and poetry, will be af- 
fected and delighted by what would otherwise 
pass unnoticed. 

Hitherto we have supposed the affecting cir- 
cumstances to be such as would be apprehended 
distinctly whenever they were presented. But 
in all the fine arts, the well-informed and expe- 
rienced receive high delight from many things, 
which, until we are particularly trained to attend 
to them, are either wholly imperceptible, or, at 
least, very indistinctly and imperfectly per- 
ceived. This may happen either from their de- 
licacy, or from their complicated nature. 



6 ESSAY I. 

It is wonderful how far even our external or- 
gans may be trained to a sensibility of the most 
delicate impressions. Blind persons, to whom 
the information derived from feeling and hear- 
ing is so peculiarly interesting, acquire in both 
of these senses a surprising acuteness. A sailor 
can with perfect certainty perceive land or a 
sail at a distance, where others, who have no 
defect in their sight, are unable to distinguish 
any thing. In like manner, experienced musi- 
cians and painters are touched to the quick 
by differences in musical tones, and by grada- 
tions of shade, which are completely unde- 
tected by common observers. And thus also 
in the language, in the allusions, in the transi- 
tions, in the sentiments, in the way of intro- 
ducing the more affecting strokes, and in va- 
rious other particulars, many delicate graces, 
which remain undiscovered by ordinary readers, 
will be felt with delight by those who have di- 
rected their attention to the refinements of com- 
position. 

But it is frequently also, from their compli- 
cated nature, that the affecting circumstances 



ON THE IMPROVEMENT OF TASTE. 7 

m the fine arts require us to be trained in a 
particular manner, before they, can be distinctly 
and fully apprehended. A concert of music, for 
example, confounds an inexperienced hearer ; 
he is unable to separate the different parts, or 
even to distinguish the principal air, although it 
should be one which he is well acquainted with, 
and would have recognized at once if it had 
been played alone, or with a single accompani- 
ment. By degrees, however, if he accustoms 
himself to hear a variety of parts, accompany- 
ing the principal air, and especially if he gives 
some application to the practice of music, lie 
begins to distinguish the principal air from the 
accompaniments, and the accompaniments from 
each other ; and it is only then that he has ac- 
quired the capacity of feeling what a concert is, 
or of receiving any thing like the true pleasure 
which it is capable of affording. 

In like manner it cannot be supposed that, 
any literary composition will produce its full 
effect on every reader. On the contrary, while 
it gives the highest delight to one, it may appear 
insipid and tiresome, or even positively disagree- 



8 ESSAY I. 

able, to another ; merely because he is not able 
to perceive the connexion between the different 
parts., to discover how they severally contribute 
to the general design and to retain, as he pro- 
ceeds, a steady view of what is past. Pindar 
says of his odes, that they are Quvccvr* cvwtow^ 
that they speak to the intelligent : and it must 
be acknowledged, that in some passages they 
are not so agreeable to a modern reader, from 
ignorance of the circumstances to which they 
allude, or from inability to discover the author's 
design, or the happiness of his transitions ; whe- 
ther this inability be always owing to a de- 
fect in the reader's intelligence, or may some- 
times proceed from a real fault in the composi- 
tions themselves. But, whatever may be the case 
with these poems, there can be no doubt of the 
general fact, that he who possesses extensive in- 
formation, a steady attention, a ready recollec- 
tion, a quick apprehension, a lively imagination, 
and a sound judgment, in a word, he who 
along with extensive information has the powers 
of his understanding improved to the greatest 
perfection, will discern many beauties of the 



ON THE IMPROVEMENT OF TASTE. 9 

highest kind, where no attractions will be felt 
by a person of inferior accomplishments. 

The advantage of a cultivated understand- 
ing, and extensive information in the improve- 
ment of taste, will appear still more evident, 
if we attend to the influence of the association 
of ideas. 

Without entering into a particular explana- 
tion of this last term, it is sufficient, at present, 
to observe in general, that a great part of what 
we feel from the objects of taste, in many in- 
stances by far the greatest part of what we feel, 
is not directly owing to the objects themselves, 
but to the train of ideas with which they are as- 
sociated in our minds ; a fact which we shall 
have occasion to consider more fully in the fol- 
lowing essay, and which Mr. Alison, in his very 
ingenious Essays on Taste, has most beautifully 
and happily established, illustrated, and ap- 
plied to many of the most interesting inves- 
tigations in the science of criticism. Now 
the train of our ideas in any particular case de- 
pends in a great measure on our habitual occu- 
pations, studies, and pursuits. And it is mani- 



10 ESSAY I. 

fest, that they whose knowledge is not only 
enlarged and varied, but also (which is the most 
important effect of cultivating the intellectual 
powers) readily recalled by whatever is con- 
nected with it, will often be kindled to a glow of 
thought, by what makes but a feeble impression 
upon less informed or duller minds. 

On the other hand it is to be remembered, 
that, from various causes, all men are liable to 
form associations which render them less fit 
either to discern, or to relish, the higher beauties 
of composition. The books which first awakened 
our imagination, however destitute they may be 
of any real excellence, cannot fail to be con- 
nected with delightful feelings which they might 
not have otherwise excited. In celebrated 
works, or such as have received the sanction 
of approved judges, the very defects are apt to 
become agreeable, not only from their con- 
nexion with real beauties, but also from being 
associated with our respect for the genius of the 
author, and for the judgment of his admirers. 
The same thing will naturally happen in compo- 
sitions connected with the government or with 



ON THE IMPROVEMENT OF TASTE. 11 

the religion which we revere, or with whatever 
else is interwoven in the idea of our country, 
and awakens our love and veneration. In such 
cases, disgusting or ludicrous circumstances may 
be connected with sentiments tending to coun- 
teract the effects which they would naturally 
produce, and which they actually do produce, 
on those who read the works without these pre- 
vious impressions. Thus we acquire a partiality 
for inferior beauties, and even for defects in 
composition — a partiality which will, of course* 
render us less favourable to what would other- 
wise have affected us with the greatest delight. 
Again, by associations of an opposite kind, our 
aversion to the character, the opinions, or even 
the country of an author, may produce an aver- 
sion to the very beauties of his works. Now it 
is evident, that the remedy for these unfavour- 
able associations is only to be found in the en- 
largement of our knowledge, and the improve- 
ment of our understanding. 

But taste cannot be completely refined with- 
out great sensibility in the moral feelings. It 



12 ESSAY I. 

is by this sensibility alone, that we rise superior 
to the allurements of those authors who prosti- 
tute their talents to enslaye us to the ignoble 
passions. It is by this sensibility alone, that we 
are awakened to the most exalted pleasures ; all 
that flow from the contemplation of the sublimer 
virtues ; all that flow from sympathy with the 
endearing cc charities" of our nature; all that 
flow from the fervors of devotion, and the hopes 
of a happier world. He who does not feel as a 
good man feels, will be a stranger to the highest 
delights of eloquence and poetry. 

Upon the whole, then, our taste will be im- 
proved, according as our moral sensibility and 
intellectual faculties are v improved ; according 
as our knowledge is extensive ; according as we 
have become acquainted with first-rate compo- 
sitions ; according as we are disposed and ac- 
customed to connect agreeable trains of thought 
with proper objects; according as we have 
learned to counteract unfavourable associations ; 
and according as we have been trained to direct 
our full attention to the more affecting circum- 



ON THE IMPROVEMENT OF TASTE. 13 

stances, and to apprehend them completely and 
dictinctly, even when they are too complicated 
or too delicate for common observers. 

But although a man should have improved his 
taste to the utmost, it may afterward be cor- 
rupted by satiety. This will happen when his 
acquaintance with compositions of merit is not 
sufficiently extensive for the time which he de- 
votes to them. Tired at last with too frequent 
repetition, he grows sick of what once delighted 
him, and flies to novelty for relief. In fact, the 
passive pleasures of taste, although they are, 
undoubtedly, our most elegant relaxations, can- 
not fail to pall upon us, if they are made the 
principal object of our pursuit. But we shall 
enjoy them most, if we employ the greater 
part of our time in the more active and inte- 
resting occupations of business or science. 

It is sufficiently obvious, that the foregoing 
observations enable us to account for tb»* -<&" 
versity of tastes which has been so of en re- 
marked : and they likewise point ojt the 
principle upon which the preference between 
different tastes ought to be determined. 



14 ESSAY I. 

It has been sometimes said, that tastes ad- 
mit of no dispute - 9 that every man is pleased as 
nature inclines him, so that every man's taste is 
equally natural : and that if the question is to 
be decided by numbers, those who take most 
delight in the ruder productions of the fine arts 
will have an undoubted preference. 

But on the other hand the circumstances, 
which have been enumerated as conducive to 
the improvement of taste, will account, in a sa- 
tisfactory manner, for the diversity which pre- 
vails, without having recourse to the supposi- 
tion, that such a diversity would subsist, if all 
men possessed the same advantages. Accord- 
ingly, that taste is to be regarded as the mosfc 
natural, and the best, which there is reason to 
think that all men would feel, if their faculties 
were improved to equal perfection, and if they 
were all placed in situations equally favourable. 
I "%t ..the variations from this taste, which pro- 
ceed f 'om inferiority in moral sensibility or in 
the intellectual faculties, from limited know- 
ledge, from accidental associations of ideas, 
from incapacity to apprehend the affecting cir- 



ON THE IMPROVEMENT OF TASTE. 15 

cumstances, from weariness and satiety ; all 
such variations are called with propriety unna- 
tural and corrupt tastes. 

It may still be asked, in what manner we are ' 
to ascertain the circumstances, which, independ- 
ently of these accidental causes of variation, 
would be agreeable to those who possess the 
requisite accomplishments and advantages. If 
we have any means of ascertaining these cir- 
cumstances, we have then what is called the 
standard of taste. 

On this subject three opinions have been 
advanced. Sometimes nature is said to be the 
standard ; sometimes we are directed to the ge- 
neral sentiments of mankind -, and sometimes to 
the principles of philosophical criticism. 

These assertions, in so far as they are intelli- 
gible, do not differ essentially from each other. 
For the principles of criticism are deduced from 
the study of human nature, and therefore it may 
be said^that they establish nature for the stand- 
ard, although it is but a vague and inaccurate 
expression. Again, these principles are, or 
ought to be, only the expressions of the general 



16 ESSAY I. 

sentiments of mankind, that is to say, of the sen- 
timents in which all men agree, when they are 
not influenced by accidental causes of variation, 
and have their faculties improved to the greatest 
perfection. Hence these principles establish 
the standard in the general sentiments of man- 
kind, by which we are to understand (as they 
who hold this language have always explained 
themselves), the general sentiments of the culti- 
vated and well-informed. 

It is to be observed, however, that the prin- 
ciples of criticism, so far as they go, exhibit a 
standard which may at all times be readily con- 
sulted ; and this is more than we can say of na- 
ture, or of the general sentiments of any part of 
mankind. But the establishment of these prin- 
ciples is an arduous work, where many errors 
mingle themselves with the investigations of the 
ablest men, and where, as in every other depart- 
ment of philosophy, we must only look for an 
approximation to what we are never destined in 
our present state completely to attain. 



ESSAY II. 



ON THE IMAGINATION, AND ON THE ASSOCIATION 
OF IDEAS. 



THE great power of composition in raising 
either our pleasing or painful emotions arises 
from the imagination, and from the association 
of ideas. These two subjects are so intimately 
connected, that it will be proper, at least for 
our purpose, to consider them together. Ac- 
cordingly, after stating what parts of the human 
constitution are to be understood by these terms, 
we shall first consider their effect in raising the 
emotions ; and, secondly, how this effect may 
be excited and regulated in composition. 

Every moment that we are awake, we expe- 
rience the state of mind which is produced by 
the impression of external objects; we expe- 
rience the sensations of colour, odour, sound, 
and so forth \ and also the perception of the 

C 



18 ESSAY II. 

objects, as possessing different qualities, and 
existing independently of our feelings. But, 
farther ; on numberless occasions, as when we 
dream, or when we reflect on any thing which 
has deeply affected us, we find that, even al- 
though the external objects are absent, we are 
in a state similar to that which is produced by 
their actual presence. It is true, that while we 
are awake, the state of our mind, when the ob- 
jects are absent, is not so vivid ; — at least in so 
far as it resembles sensation and perception 
it is not so vivid, — as when the objects them- 
selves affect our organs of sensation. For this 
difference, however, there is an obvious rea- 
son ; namely, that the various surrounding ob- 
jects distract our attention, and also remind 
us continually, that what we reflect upon is 
not really before us. But in dreaming our state 
of mind seems to be perfectly the same, as if 
the objects which are represented were actually 
present. Sometimes in dreaming our state of 
mind is even more vivid ; not only because we 
are removed from the influence of external ob- 
jects, but frequently also because our thoughts 



ON THE IMAGINATION, &C. 19 

are then confined to a smaller range of objects 
than when we are awake. But however this 
may be, one thing every person knows, that in 
reflecting upon any object which he has for- 
merly observed, he is brought into a state of 
mind similar to that which was produced by the 
actual presence of the object itself. 

But there is a great deal more than this. We 
are able in thought to combine at pleasure the 
various qualities which we have observed in real 
objects, and thus to exhibit to ourselves innu- 
merable objects which we never observed, and 
even which never existed. We can easily figure 
the dreams of the ancient astronomers, the crys- 
talline spheres of Heaven revolving in harmoni- 
ous concert. We can easily conceive the mate- 
rial representations which have been given of 
the spiritual world, and people the ethereal re- 
gions with a race of immortal beings in the hu- 
man form, but far more noble and beautiful, 

Sailing with supreme dominion 
Through the azure deep of air. Gray. 

Now when our attention is turned to these com- 
binations, just as in the case where we reflect 

C2 



&0 ESSAY II. 

on absent bbjects which we have formerly ob- 
served, we are conscious of a state of mind 
similar to that which would be produced, if we 
saw and believed the objects themselves to be 
present. And we give the name of the ima- 
gination to that part of our constitution, which 
produces a state of mind similar to the sensa- 
tions and perceptions that would be produced 
by the presence of any object, whether the ob- 
ject be real or not. 

But the mind cannot confine itself to any 
one object. On the contrary, whatever is pre- 
sented to us, whether by the senses, by the ima- 
gination, or by the understanding, instantly sug- 
gests some other object to which it is related $ 
this last suggests a third, and so on - 9 and thus, 
at least while we are awake, we are always con- 
scious of a train of thought going forward, and 
often with astonishing rapidity. It will proceed 
even without any exertion upon our part ; nor 
does it appear to be ever interrupted, except 
when we fall into a state of utter insensibility, as 
in the ease perhaps of a profound sleep; or 
when conversation, or reading, or some external 



ON THE IMAGINATION, &C. 21 

object, happens to introduce a foreign thought 
for the commencement of a new series. 

The association of ideas is the name given to 
this part of our constitution, which, by a sort of 
fermentation, as Dr. Reid has well expressed it, 
is [always exciting a train of thoughts in conse- 
quence of every object which engages the at- 
tention. 

We come now to consider the effect of the 
imagination, and of the association of ideas, in 
raising the emotions. 

As imagination is a state of mind similar to 
perception, it will not bethought surprising, that 
the objects which it contemplates should have 
an influence similar to that of present objects, 
and likewise raise our emotions, at least in some 
degree. That this is actually the case will be 
readily acknowledged. Every hour we are con- 
scious of emotions excited by the imagination, 
without the intervention of external objects. 
The scenes through which we have passed, the 
friends with whom we have conversed, the dan- 
gers to which we have been exposed, the hap- 
piness which we have enjoyed or expect to 



%% ESSAY II. 

enjoy, the evils which we have suffered, or are 
apprehensive of suffering % these and other ob- 
jects are continually occurring to the imagina- 
tion, and affecting us, at least in some degree, 
with the same pain or pleasure, which would 
have been produced by their actual presence. 

Our emotions are raised even by those objects 
of the imagination, which we know to be purely 
imaginary, and never seriously believed to have 
any existence. The reader, probably, has no 
belief in ghosts and enchantments; yet he will 
feel some degree of horror when his imagination 
is awakened by the tales 

Of the death-bed call 
To him who robb'd the widow, and devourM 
The orphan's portion ; of unquiet souls 
Risen from the grave to ease the heavy guilt 
Of deeds in life conceal' d ; of shapes that walk 
At dead of night, and clank their chains, and wave 
The torch of Hell around the murd'rer's bed.* 

But there is a curious fact, which we must now 
take notice of, as it is of the greatest importance 
to be studied by composers ; and that is, the 

* Akenside's Pleasures of the Imagination, 1. i. v. 256. 



ON THE IMAGINATION, &C 23 

strength or liveliness of the emotions which are 
frequently raised by the imagination. 

It does not appear surprising, that some faint 
emotions should be raised , and in many cases no 
doubt they are extremely faint. But in many 
cases also they are extremely vivid, and some- 
times even more vivid than those of which we 
are conscious in real life. I do not say that this 
is always the case, but only that it frequently 
happens: and any one may be convinced of 
the truth of the assertion, by a little attention to 
his own experience; 

For instance; however susceptible any one 
may be of the beauties of nature, yet he has no 
doubt frequently viewed a fine landscape with 
great indifference. But when the same, or even 
a much inferior one, has occurred to his imagina- 
tion, and especially if it has been presented in 
a poetical description, he may have felt as high, 
or perhaps a higher degree of pleasure, than 
he ever received from any landscape which 
was actually before his eyes. So, likewise, the 
perusal, or the recollection of a well-told pathe- 
tic story, even when we are convinced that it is 



24 ESSAY II. 

entirely fictitious, will often raise our pity more 
powerfully than still greater distress which we 
actually behold. 

This curious fact, which deserves to be care- 
fully considered by all who study the principles 
of composition, appears to be explained by the 
following observations. 

We may observe, in the first place, how much 
depends on the selection of circumstances. In- 
real life our attention is distracted by the variety 
of objects, which all equally affect our senses, 
but which produce various and contrary effects 
on the mind. In the same manner, also, every 
individual object has a variety of qualities or 
circumstances, which raise emotions of different 
and perhaps opposite natures. 

Now when any object or any scene is pre- 
sented to the imagination, although it may not 
appear so distinct or so lively as it does to the 
eye, yet it may be presented in that point of 
view, which will conduce in the highest degree 
to some particular effect; all the qualities and 
circumstances which are favourable to the effect 
being forced on our attention, while such as are 



ON THE IMAGINATION, &C. 25 

unfavourable or indifferent are concealed and 
overlooked. The finest landscape is interspersed 
with objects which either have no beauty, or are 
positively disagreeable. But these are neglected 
by the poet, who selects only what is sublime, 
picturesque, or beautiful, and thus by his de- 
scription rouses the imagination to contemplate 
a scene, not so distinct or lively, but more con- 
ducive to his particular purpose than what is 
exhibited by nature. 

Or to take an instance of a different kind : in 
the mortality of a plague on shipboard, how 
many things would occur to overwhelm the 
spectator with terror and disgust, as well as to 
melt him with the kindlier sympathies of pity ! 
But in Thomson's description of a scene of this 
kind on the coast of Carthagena, that engaging 
poet has omitted every loathsome circumstance, 
and touched the terrible but with a gentle 
though masterly hand, while he holds up to 
view the particulars which are calculated to 
awaken our tenderest compassion. 

You, gallant Vernon, saw 
The miserable scene ; you pitying saw 
To infant weakness sunk the warrior's arm ; 



%6 ESSAY II. 

Saw the deep-racking pang, the ghastly form, 
The lip pale quivering, and the beamless eye 
No more with ardour bright : you heard the groans 
Of agonizing ships from shore to shore ; 
Heard nightly plung'd amid the sullen waves 
The frequent corse. 

We are next to observe, that as in real life 
we frequently see too much, so, on the other 
hand, we frequently see too little, to raise a par- 
ticular emotion to its greatest height. Thus in 
the distresses of our fellow-creatures, it is but 
rarely that we are witnesses of the whole series 
of calamitous events, and that only at intervals 
1)oth of time and place. It is but seldom that 
we are acquainted with the character of the 
sufferer, that we know how much he has lost, 
his sensibility to his losses, and the patience and 
fortitude with which he endures his afflictions. 
On the other hand, in those distressful scenes 
which we form in our imagination* or which are 
represented to us by the novelist or dramatic 
poet, the whole story is brought at once before 
us, and ail the pathetic circumstances, which are 
unknown or overlooked in real life, may be ex- 
hibited in their full force. 



ON THE IMAGINATION, &C. 27 

We have to add, in the next place, that the 
qualities which are favourable to a particular 
effect appear frequently higher to the imagina- 
tion than they are in reality. Thus when we 
meet with a beautiful woman whom we admired, 
but whom we have not seen for a considerable 
time, we are apt to suppose that she looks worse 
than formerly, merely because we had conceived 
too high an idea of her in our absence. Hence 
too we are often disappointed, when we are made 
acquainted with any person, whom we have heard 
greatly praised before we saw him. From the 
same cause, and from that which was first men- 
tioned, that objects frequently appear to the 
imagination free from their imperfections, we 
are apt to entertain an extravagant veneration 
for the sages and heroes of remote antiquity. 
To these causes also we are to ascribe the 
discontent, which so many people show for the 
comforts and pleasures which are in their pos- 
session, and their partiality for absent places, 
and absent persons, and in general for every 
object of desire, which it is not in their power 
to obtain at the time. 



£8 ESSAY II. 

But the imagination, in numberless instances, 
goes far beyond the mere representation of ob- 
jects freed from their imperfections, or with 
their excellencies improved. For we are next 
to remember, that it combines all the excellen- 
cies which subsist in any particular species, 
and thus forms an imaginary creature far su- 
perior to any thing which we ever beheld. Just 
as Zeuxis, the celebrated Grecian painter (and 
I presume that other painters have followed 
a similar method), by uniting in one figure 
the beauties which he had observed in different 
women, produced a Helen incomparably more 
beautiful than any of them. In this manner it 
is easy to see how much the imagination may 
improve on nature in every department ; how 
it may conceive a race of mortals far more 
amiable and respectable than the best and most 
accomplished of human creatures; and scenes 
more awful, more sublime, more beautiful, or 
more gay, than any which now exist upon 
earth. Thus we are transported into the re- 
gions of the marvellous, where the imagination 
wanders without control. 



ON THE IMAGINATION, &C. $9 

We are farther to observe, that without going 
beyond what actually exists, many of the most 
affecting objects of nature are either too vast or 
too minute, to be perceived sufficiently by the 
senses; while, at the same time, when the 
imagination is roused, it is able to conceive 
them with great distinctness. Thus in the mo- 
tions of the heavenly bodies, what we see with 
our eyes is nothing compared to the view which 
rises in the mind at particular times. The 
diurnal revolution, which is incomparably the 
most rapid of all the apparent movements in 
the heavens, is to the sight a very slow one. 
Of the apparent movements of the moon and 
planets among the fixed stars, that of the moon 
is by far the quickest : and yet we can scarcely 
discern in less than an hour that she has ap- 
proached nearer to any of the stars. And with 
regard to the planets, a day, and frequently a 
week or more, must elapse before we are sen- 
sible of any change. But how different is the 
vision which rises in the imagination, when we 
are properly awakened to conceive the revolu- 
tions of those mighty globes, as they roll with 



30 , ESSAY II. 

astonishing rapidity through the depths of space I 
when we are awakened, for instance, by the 
following address of Milton, though it is not 
agreeable to the system which is now uni- 
versally adopted : 

Thou, Sun, of this great world both eye and soul, 
. Acknowledge Him thy greater, sound his praise 
In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st, 
And when high noon hast gain'd, and when thou fall'st. 
Moon, that now meet'st the orient Sun, now fliest 
. With the fix'd stars, fix'd in their orb that flies ; 
And, ye five other wandering fires, that move 
In mystic dance, not without song ; resound 
His praise, who out of darkness call'd up light*. 

We may next observe, that in real life the 
most affecting objects may be presented to us 
at a time when we are not disposed to receive 
the proper impression. Our attention may be 
distracted by objects of a very different nature ; 
or we may be engaged by interesting reflections 
of our own - 9 or we may be under the influence 
of passions, counteracting the effect which the 
scene before us would otherwise have produced. 
A man who is looking forward to a party of 

* Paradise Lost, b. 5. v. 171. 



ON THE IMAGINATION, &C. 31 

pleasure, or ruminating on a profitable bargain, 
is not in a frame to be easily subdued by ob- 
jects of pity, or easily elevated to sublime con- 
ceptions. We are likewise to remember, that 
without any apparent cause, our sensibility va- 
ries. Objects which at one time would have 
warmed and filled our hearty we behold at an- 
other with indifference. Thus it is easy to con- 
ceive, that the mere imagination of an object, 
at a time when we are more particularly dis- 
posed to be affected by it, may produce an 
emotion incomparably greater than would 
otherwise be felt from its actual presence. 

Lastly -, both the vivacity and the nature of 
the emotion produced by any object depend 
on the particular train of thought which it ex- 
cites. Let us suppose, for instance, two differ- 
ent persons viewing a beautiful and extensive 
vernal prospect. Let us likewise suppose, that 
from their particular habits, they are led by 
this view to different reflections : that one of 
them looks forward only to the wealth, which 
will arise to the possessors from the good crops, 



32 ESSAY II. 

and the rents which the proprietors ought to 
receive for fields so well enclosed, and in such 
excellent condition; while the other is awakened 
to the affecting and exalted contemplations 
which we find in Buchanan's ode, the Calendse 
Majae ; — the beauty and happiness of the creation 
at the return of spring, the perpetual spring 
which reigned in the primeval ages before the 
degeneracy of man, the future restoration of 
nature to its original glory, and the felicity of 
the virtuous in that better state. It is evident, 
that the one of these observers will not be sen- 
sible of the sublime emotions, which the very 
same view has kindled in the other. And we 
can easily see, that the imagination of an object, 
if attended with the proper train of thought, 
may affect us in a particular way far more pow- 
erfully than its actual presence would have done, 
if our thoughts had been turned into a different 
channel. 

These observations on the vivacity of the 
emotions produced by the imagination suggest 
the general principles, which a composer ought 



ON THE IMAGINATION, &C. S3 

to keep in view for exciting and regulating its 
influence according to his particular purpose. 

He ought, in the first place, to be extremely 
careful in selecting and bringing forward the 
circumstances which are conducive to his pur- 
pose, and concealing as much as may be those 
which are unfavourable, or even superfluous. 

This rule is very apt to be overlooked by 
an author of a fertile imagination. A mul- 
titude of brilliant ideas rise before him in 
the glow of composition, and he is unwilling to 
part with any of them, even although they 
should have the effect to draw off the reader's 
attention from the principal objects, and thus 
to deaden the great impression. Nor does the 
ardour of genius easily submit either to select 
with care, or even to wait with patience, and to 
seek with industry for the most favourable and 
affecting ideas. 

It may be said, that such a mode of com- 
posing would be hurtful to the exertions of 
genius -, and that it is better for a composition 
to have many and even gross faults, than to be 

D 



34 ESSAY II. 

altogether faultless, but at the same time des- 
titute of those high excellencies, which have 
charmed the world in Shakspeare and Homer. 

This assertion I am far from disputing, and 
have no doubt, that ah author ought to give as 
full scope as possible to his fancy in the time of 
composition, and even to mark down all his 
thoughts, if they appear to have any merit, 
although he should suspect that he may after- 
wards find cause to reject them. But when the 
glow of composition has subsided, let him 
calmly revise his work, and prune it not only 
of what is unfavourable to the emotions which 
he wishes to communicate, but even of what is 
indifferent. Horace, whose good sense is so well 
known, laments the hastiness of the authors in 
his own country $ affirms that Italy would not 
have been more renowned for virtue and arms 
than for literature, if they had not been im- 
patient of the labour and delay requisite for 
polishing ; and calls on the Pisoes to censure 
the poems, which had not been corrected with 
much time and much blotting, and polished 



ON THE IMAGINATION, &C. 35 

again and again, ad unguem, with scrupu- 
lousness. 

Nee virtute foret, clarisve potentius armis 
Quam lingua Latium, si non ofFenderet unum 
Quemque poetarum limse labor et mora. Vos, O 
Pompilius sanguis, carmen reprehendite, quod non 
Multa dies et multa litura coercuit, atque 
Perfectum decies non castigavit ad unguem.* 

It is evident then in what manner a patient 
selection of circumstances may be rendered 
compatible with the greatest ardour of genius, 
and the highest excellencies of composition. 
The great care of this selection ought to be, 
not in the time of composing, but both before 
and after; that is to say, when the author 
forms, or at least when he corrects his plan, 
and above all in the revisal of what he has 
finished. There can be no doubt, that in this 
manner both Homer and Shakspeare would 
have rendered their performances finer through- 
out, and even heightened the effect of those 



* De Arte Poetica, v. 



36 ESSAY II. 

passages, which in themselves require no 
amendment. 

The author is also to remember, in the 
second place, that a great impression is not 
to be expected, unless he be careful to prepare 
the reader. It has been observed, that the 
emotion produced by the sight of an external 
object is often feeble, compared with the effect of 
the same object when represented to the imagi- 
nation, — because in real life we are often dis- 
tracted by objects of a different nature, or en- 
gaged with thoughts of our own, or under the in- 
fluence of unfavourable passions. An author 
therefore must employ all his skill, to direct our 
attention to such a train of thoughts, and to 
awaken us to such emotions, as may best dispose 
us for the impression to be made. If he is to 
strike us with terror, he must turn us aside from 
what is cheerful or enlivening; bring us gra- 
dually not only to a serious, but a melancholy 
frame; and likewise throw out previous hints 
to alarm us. If he is to melt us into pity, he 
must endeavour in the first place to interest us 



ON THE IMAGINATION, &C 37 

in the fate of the character, to render him the 
object of our esteem and love, and to impress 
us with a high idea of the happiness from which 
he is to fall. Circumstances which would pro- 
duce the most powerful effect, if skilfully pre- 
pared and introduced, will prove extremely 
feeble, or perhaps entirely abortive, sometimes 
even ridiculous, in the management of an ordi- 
nary or a careless composer. Every one, who 
has witnessed the representation of Venice 
Preserved, may recollect a circumstance, which 
shows how much may be done by a proper 
preparation. I allude to the sudden alarm, 
which seizes the audience in the parting scene 
between Jaffier and Belvidera, when the bell 
gives the first toll for the execution of the 
conspirators. The effect of the bell would 
have been little or nothing, if it had been 
heard before this affecting interview begins. 
It is from the trembling sensibility to which 
we are previously subdued, that the signal 
for the execution shakes us to the very 
heart. 



3S ESSAY II. 

But although an author ought to be ex- 
tremely careful to select and bring forward the 
important circumstances, and to prepare for 
their introduction where it is necessary -> yet it 
is not to be understood, that he ought always to 
enter into a minute detail. On the contrary, it 
may often have a much greater effect, not 
to circumscribe the reader's imagination by 
painting to him every feature, but rather to 
give hints from which he may figure the 
object or the scene to himself: for the 
imagination when sufficiently roused is capa- 
ble of conceiving them far more awful, sub- 
lime, beautiful, or affecting, than it is pos- 
sible for words to describe, or for the pencil 
-to delineate. We would therefore suggest as 
the third general principle, that wherever it 
may be supposed that the reader is sufficiently 
roused to gather from hints enough to form 
a picture to himself - 3 there it will be advisable, 
only to set his imagination to work by means 
of such hints as may lead him to the proper 
view of the subject. 



ON THE IMAGINATION, &C. 39 

How finely is this remark exemplified in the 
representation, which our great poet has given 
of Eve in Paradise ! 

Grace was in all her steps, Heav'n in her eye, 
In ev'ry gesture dignity and love*. 

Or to take an instance of a very different nature, 
in his view of the infernal regions, it may be 
observed how often we have nothing more than 
hints for figuring to ourselves every thing that 
is most horrible. 

Roving on 
In confus'd march forlorn, th* advent'rous bands 
With shuddering horror pale and eyes aghast, 
View'd first their lamentable lot, and found 
No rest ; through many a dark and dreary vale 
They pass'd, and many a region dolorous, 
O'er many a fiery, many a frozen Alp, 
Rocks, caves, lakes, fens, bogs, dens, and shades of 
Death, 

A universe of Death 

worse 

Than fables yet have feign'd or fear conceiv'df . 

Painters also adopt frequently the same plan 
of rousing the imagination by hints. In the 

* Paradise Lost, viii. f Paradise Lost, ii. 



40 ESSAY II. 

celebrated picture of Achilles bewailing the 
death of Patroclus, we do not see the face 
of Achilles, although it was the idea of his 
anguish that the painter wished to convey. 
Achilles is represented covering his face with 
his hand ; and it is from this circumstance, 
and from the manner in which he seems to 
grasp his forehead, that we figure to ourselves 
more than it was possible to paint. 

It may not, however, be easy to determine in 
particular cases, whether the reader may be 
supposed to be sufficiently prepared, so that 
the hints which are given may serve both to 
keep up the fire of his imagination, and to 
present a sufficient outline, which he will 
readily of himself fill up in the manner we 
could wish. Where this does not happen, the 
attempt must prove abortive, and the compo- 
sition be most feeble in the very place, where 
the author designed it to have the strongest 
effect. 

It ought on the other hand to be carefully 
remarked, that every great or interesting object, 
instead of being represented by general hints, 



ON THE IMAGINATION, &C 41 

ought in some respects to be particularly and 
even minutely described, so that it may stand 
forward in our minds as a distinct individual, to 
be dressed up to our own fancy in other respects 
from the general hints which the author suggests 
to rouse our imagination. This is the practice 
of the great poet, from whom the instances 
are taken. He had already described Eve 
very particularly in several respects, before the 
admirable representation which has just been 
quoted. He had likewise given a view suf- 
ficiently minute, perhaps in some things too 
minute, of the infernal regions and the state of 
the rebellious angels, before he completed the 
whole with the general expressions of horror. 
Homer from the distinct account which he 
gives of several circumstances in the manner, 
in the person, and -even in the dress of his 
different heroes, enables his readers to conceive 
each of them as a separate individual; and 
what is left to the imagination to supply, it 
supplies the better from the assistance which it 
has already received to form a great part of the 
picture. 



42 ESSAY II. 

In the last place, an author should be par- 
ticularly careful to direct us to the proper train 
of thoughts, and not allow us to be diverted by- 
such as are either inconsistent with or foreign 
to his design. We have seen already, that the 
same object will produce very different emo- 
tions, according to the thoughts with which it 
happens to be associated - 3 that an object, which 
when it excites one train of thoughts warms us 
with the sublimest emotions, will at another 
time appear with no charms, and be viewed 
with indifference. 

It is not necessary, however, that all the 
thoughts to be suggested should be stated at 
length. On the contrary, as the author, in his 
description of the most affecting objects, should 
frequently leave much for the imagination to 
paint to itself, so here likewise he should observe 
the same discretion, and rather be content with 
directing our thoughts to a particular channel, 
than attempt to state precisely every idea that 
occurs to himself. Such a mode of compo- 
sition, however proper on some occasions, when 
we are endeavouring to initiate a scholar in the 



ON THE IMAGINATION, &C. 43 

rudiments of a science, is extremely tiresome, 
and altogether inconsistent with the rapidity of 
the mind, when it is roused by any powerful 
emotion. 

These general principles will be more fully 
illustrated in treating of the different sources of 
pleasure. 



ESSAY III. 



ON THE SUBLIME. 



NO subject has been treated more vaguely 
than the sublime; as will appear from the 
accounts which have been given by authors of 
eminence, who wrote professedly to explain 
it. 

To begin with Longinus : " What is sublime," 
says that agreeable writer, " does not lead the 
" hearers to persuasion, but to ecstasy; and 
" every where the wonderful, by the astonish - 
cc ment which it produces, surpasses the per- 
cc suasive and the graceful; since it is for 
" the most part in our power to resist the 
" persuasive: but the sublime, carrying with 
" it irresistible power and violence, subdues 



ON THE SUBLIME. 45 

" every hearer."* Again he says, that " our 
" mind is raised by the true sublime, and 
" receiving a certain proud elevation, re- 
" joices and glories, as if it had actually 
" produced what it heard. "f Now these 
accounts are far from pointing out any precise 
characters by which the sublime may be dis- 
tinguished. Besides, they exclude, what have 
been universally regarded as sublime, the ob- 
jects which raise our veneration; for veneration 
is an humbling, not a proud or elevating 
emotion. 

Lord Karnes, in the fourth chapter of his 
Elements of Criticism, informs us, that every 
thing which is great in size affects the mind 
with a certain emotion, which he calls the 
emotion of grandeur; and that every thing 

'Ov yctg it? irt^u rovq uK^ou^tvovq^ «AA' Ik ixerraqiv 
ecyn ret. viregipva,' Kuvrn It yi cvv IxTrAjjftt rov mQxvov xou 
rov ir^oq X^^ * Si ngouru to Qxvpxaiov' eiys to ptv niQavov, 
uq rx woXhct 9 \p 'hiaiv* ruvrx <5e, hvoca-rtiav kui @txi/ 
upccxov TTgoaipigovTu, vacvroq sirum rov cLxgowpevov x.<zQHrrct,rtzi. 
Tltgi 'Y^oy?. §. 1. 

Ytto t otK^ovq v^ovq incu^trcu re yy.wv v fyvxp, nut yotvoov 
t» avacTT»j^,a Aap,#avot/cra, irKygovrcti %a§QK x«s (jt.eyx'Kuv^xq^ uq 
*vrn yerwo-ao-u o7re§ movee*. Ibid. §. 7. 



46 ESSAY III. 

which is elevated in situation produces what 
he calls the emotion of sublimity, which is 
similar, but not exactly the same with the 
former. " These emotions/' he says, " are 
" clearly distinguishable, not only in the in- 
" ternal feeling, but even in their external 
" expressions. A great object (these are his 
" words) makes the spectator endeavour to 
" enlarge his bulk; which is remarkable in 
" plain people, who give way to nature with- 
<c out reserve - y in describing a great object 
" they naturally expand themselves, by draw- 
<e ing in air with all their force. An elevated 
" object produces a different expression; it 
" makes the spectator stretch upwards, and 
cc stands a-tiptoe." He observes still farther, 
that no object is termed grand or sublime, 
unless, together with its size or its elevation, 
it be possessed of the qualities which contribute 
to beauty, such as regularity, proportion, order, 
or colour. He even asserts, that according to 
the number of such qualities combined with 
magnitude or elevation, the object is more or 
less grand or sublime : though he acknowledges 



ON THE SUBLIME. 47 

that the perfection of these beautiful qua- 
lities is less requisite in great, elevated, or 
distant objects, than in those which are small 
or near. Now he adds, that every emotion, 
from whatever cause it proceeds, which re- 
sembles the emotion produced by grandeur or 
elevation, is called by the same name. Hence 
he accounts for courage, magnanimity, ge- 
nerosity, and whatever else is called sub- 
lime, being all ranked in the same class, 
the emotions which they produce resem- 
bling what we feel at the sight of great or 
elevated objects. 

These observations are more vague and un- 
satisfactory than we should have expected in 
a philosophical discussion, and especially from 
an author of so great acuteness, who has 
thrown light on very difficult subjects. For 
surely it is not obvious at first sight, that 
there is any thing in common between two 
species of objects so very different, as the 
ocean or the sky on the one hand, and on 
the other hand Caesar's courage or Cato's mag- 
nanimity 5 nor do we readily discover what is 



48 essay in; 

the resemblance between the emotions which 
they produce. 

Dr. Gerard, in the second section of his 
Essay on Taste, agrees with Lord Kames, in 
considering the emotion produced by objects 
of great dimensions as the standard of the 
sublime 3 though he does not insist, like his 
lordship, that they should be adorned with any 
of the beautiful qualities, but only that they 
should " possess quantity, or amplitude, and sim- 
" plicity in conjunction." And he endeavours 
in the following manner to account for the 
resemblance, which he supposes between such 
an emotion and those which are produced 
by the consideration of the nobler passions, 
as heroism, magnanimity, or patriotism. In 
forming the idea of any passion, he says, tc we 
" run over in thought the objects about 
'* which it is employed, the things by which 
" it is produced, the effects by which it dis- 
" covers itself ; and as these always enter into 
" our conception of the passion, and are often 
" connected with quantity, they naturally render 
c? the passion sublime. What wonder, then," 



ON THE SUBLIME. 49 

he adds, " that we esteem heroism grand, 
" when, in order to imagine it, we suppose a 
iC mighty conqueror, in opposition to the most 
" formidable dangers, acquiring power over 
Xi multitudes of nations, subjecting to his do- 
" minions wide-extended countries, and pur- 
" chasing renown which reaches to the ex- 
cc tremities of the world, and shall continue 
" through all the ages of futurity. " 

Now here we may ask, if the hero's supe- 
riority to indolence, pleasure, and security, and 
his contempt of hardships, danger, death, and 
ruin, are not sublime objects in themselves, 
independently of any consideration of the num- 
bers whom he has subdued, the wideness of his 
dominion, or the extent and duration of his fame. 
I apprehend, that those heroic virtues, exerted 
within the narrow bounds of a single city, and 
even exerted without success and without being 
known to the world, would be considered as far 
more sublime than the history of a man who 
had travelled through all the countries of the 
earth where he could travel without danger, 
and whose name was known every where, and 

E 



50 ESSAY III. 

would be perpetuated to posterity as an accurate 
geographer or calculator in astronomy. 

Our author, however, has also another way of 
explaining how the heroic virtues belong to the 
sublime; for he says, that such an excellence of 
character " excites wonder and astonishment, 
" the same emotion which is produced by 
** amplitude. " But here it may be observed, 
that every object which is new or extraordinary 
of its kind, a woman of very uncommon beauty, 
a hag of very uncommon ugliness, all excite 
our wonder and astonishment. Yet surely our 
wonder and astonishment at beauty are very 
different from our wonder and astonishment at 
ugliness ; nor does the state of mind produced 
by either of these objects resemble that which 
is produced by amplitude, or any other emotion 
which is called sublime. 

Dr. Gerard, indeed, has limited his account 
of the emotion of sublimity, and limited it too 
much, by saying after Longinus, that the soul 
when affected by it " feels a noble pride, and 
ce entertains a lofty conception of its own ca- 
" parity." For, as we have already observed, 



ON THE SUBLIME. 51 

-veneration is an humbling, not a proud emotion; 
and so too is our admiration of the omni- 
potence displayed in the works of nature : yet 
both of these emotions are universally acknow- 
ledged to be sublime. 

Neither does the observation appear to be 
just, that all sublime emotions agree in com- 
posing the soul to a " solemn sedateness;" for 
this is not very expressive of our state of mind, 
when we look at the ocean in a storm, or admire 
an instance of extraordinary generosity. 

Mr. Burke, in his philosophical Essay on the 
Sublime and Beautiful, has considered the sub- 
ject in a very different light from the writers 
already mentioned, and explained and defended 
his theory with great ingenuity and liveliness. 
" Whatever," he says, " is fitted in any sort to 
" excite the ideas of pain and danger, that is 
cc to say, whatever is in any sort terrible, or 
cc is conversant about terrible objects, or ope- 
cc rates in any manner analogous to terror, is a 
fc source of the sublime."* Here, indeed, we 

* Part i. §. 7. 
E 2 



5% ESSAY III. 

might suppose, that the author' is mentioning 
only one of its sources; but we find, when 
we proceed, that the definition is considered as 
universal; nor does he even avail himself of the 
vague expression, " whatever operates in a man- 
" ner analogous to terror," to avoid the difficulty 
of reducing all sublime objects within its com- 
pass. On the contrary, after enumerating the 
different kinds of them, he endeavours to show, 
that they are all such as either raise terror di- 
rectly, or else such as produce the same state 
of body which terror produces, and consequently 
raise some degree of that passion in the mind. 
For, both in the sublime and beautiful, he pro- 
ceeds on this principle, that as every passion of 
the mind produces a certain state of body, so on 
the other hand when the state of body corres- 
ponding to any passion is produced, by what- 
ever cause, it will always be attended with some 
degree of the particular passion. Mr. Burke 
endeavoured to bring his principle even to the 
test of experiment; for he says, " he has often 
<c observed, that on mimicking the looks of 
" angry, or placid, or frighted, or daring men, 



ON THE SUBLIME. 53 

" he has involuntarily found his mind turned to 
" that passion the appearance of which he en- 
" deavoured to imitate; and he is convinced 
cc that it is hard to avoid it, though one strove 
" to separate the passion from its correspond- 
<c ent gesture."* 

Whatever truth there may be in this princi- 
ple, still we cannot admit the general theory, 
were it only for this one consideration, that we 
find objects which are terrible in the highest de- 
gree, but which yet are destitute of all preten- 
sions to sublimity. Such, for instance, are a 
mortal wound, a coffin, a rack, a gibbet. We 
must, therefore, suppose the terrible to be dis- 
tinct from the sublime, however frequently these 
two characters may be united, or heighten each 
other's effect. 

The most plausible theory appears to be 
that which is suggested by Dr. Blair at the 
conclusion of his Lecture on Sublimity in 
Objects. His words are : cc Mighty force or 
" power, whether accompanied with terror or 

* Part iv. §. 4. 



54 ESSAY III. 

" not, whether employed in alarming or pro- 
" tec ting us, has a better title than any thing 
" that has been mentioned, to be the funda- 
" mental quality of the sublime." Agreeably 
to the opinion of this judicious and eloquent 
author, I would state in general, that objects are 
sublime, according as they exhibit or suggest ex- 
traordinary power. 

The truth of the theory will be more evident, 
when we take a survey of the different qualities 
which are regarded as sublime, and consider 
the emotions which they raise. We shall 
afterwards endeavour to state the principles 
which an author ought to have in view, when 
he would affect his readers with these delightful 
emotions. 

Great power is universally acknowledged to 
be sublime ; whether it be that which is exerted 
by living agents on external objects; or whe- 
ther it be the force with which bodies act upon 
each other ; or whether it be the mental energy 
of intellectual beings. In all these cases, the 
contemplation of great power is productive of a 
vivid and delightful admiration. In the two 



ON THE SUBLIME. 55 

former cases, the admiration is always accom- 
panied with terror. For even when we have 
no apprehension of danger to ourselves, and 
even when the power is employed in acts of 
utility or of kindness, still some degree of awe 
will be raised from the imagination of the dread- 
ful evils which it is capable of inflicting. In 
the contemplation of mental energy there are 
two cases ; the consciousness of our own 
force of mind, and the conception of what is 
exerted by others. In the former case we are 
sensible of that elevating pride, which Longi- 
nus regarded as so characteristic of the sub- 
lime: and in the latter case, according as 
we suppose ourselves capable of the same 
exertion or not, our admiration is min- 
gled with elevating pride, or humbling venera- 
tion. 

Let us now consider how far extraordinary 
power is exhibited or suggested in the other 
sublime qualities. 

In external objects, the most obvious of these 
qualities is magnitude -> such magnitude as we 
observe in lofty and spacious buildings, wide 



56 ESSAY III. 

rivers, extended plains, mountains, precipices, 
the ocean, and the firmament. When our at- 
tention is directed to this quality, we are always 
conscious of a very lively emotion, an emotion 
so remarkable, that, as we have observed, some 
philosophers have fixed upon it as the standard 
of the sublime. Now the extraordinary power 
which must have been employed in the pro- 
duction of such an object, and the extraor- 
dinary force with which it would act upon 
other bodies, are the only things which are 
naturally and directly suggested, we may almost 
say exhibited, by its magnitude singly. And 
hence arises the principle, that the sublimity is 
the greater according as there is the greater 
simplicity or uniformity of appearance. For 
there is no quality whatever, at least in bodies 
at rest, which suggests, so directly as magnitude 
does, the idea of power. The other qualities 
suggest to us different ideas, such as design, 
wisdom, goodness, convenience, pleasure, which 
divert our attention, and soften the effect of the 
simple idea of power. 

That principle, however, is to be understood 



ON THE SUBLIME. 57 

with a limitation. For although, when other 
things are the same, the uniform object is 
naturally more sublime than the variegated ; 
yet if the latter happens to suggest the idea 
of greater power than the former, it will of 
course be felt proportionably more sublime. 
Without this limitation, we cannot, for instance, 
admit Mr. Burke's observation, that the sky 
when uniform in its appearance is grander 
than when it is bespangled with the stars. For 
when these spangles suggest what is taught 
by astronomy, that they are so many suns 
arranged at immeasurable distances through 
the depths of space, diffusing light and heat 
to their different systems of revolving worlds, 
then we must acknowledge, that of all material 
objects the starry heavens are by far the sub- 
limest, which nature has yet displayed to the 
admiration of mortals. 

Thus both the principle itself, and the li- 
mitation with which it ought to be understood, 
correspond perfectly with the general theory, 
that objects are sublime, according as they 
exhibit or suggest extraordinary power. 



58 ESSAY III. 

The theory also accounts for an observation, 
which, although it be inconsistent with Mr. 
Burke's notions, will yet be generally acknow- 
ledged. When we look down from the top of 
a precipice, it appears more dreadful, but less 
sublime, than when we stand below and look 
upwards. In this latter case, the height of the 
object is greatly magnified by optical deception ; 
but moreover we are strongly impressed with 
the idea of the mighty power, which reared 
so enormous a mass to such a height, still more 
than with the idea of the vast force with which 
it threatens to fall. In the former case we are 
chiefly struck with the imagination of our in- 
evitable and dreadful destruction, if by any ac- 
cident we slipped from our station, a destruction 
which does not involve any idea of power.* 

* Upon this paragraph, which is precisely the same as in 
the first Edition, the author was much edified with the 
following animadversion. " He is peculiarly unfortunate," 
says the British Critic, "in dwelling upon the sublime 
" effect of looking down a precipice, instead of looking up 
" to an equal height, as an illustration of his doctrine, 
<e which is so direct a proof of the theory that resolves 
" sublimity into terror." British Critic for June, 1 810. 



ON THE SUBLIME. 59 

The difference between the two cases is strongly 
marked in Mr. Jefferson's description of the 
famous natural bridge of rocks in Virginia, 
quoted by the Marquis de Chastellux in his 
Travels in North America. The height of the 
bridge is 270 feet, according to some mea- 
surements, but according to others only 205. 
The fissure is about 45 feet wide at the bottom, 
and 90 at the top. The bridge is about 60 feet 
in the middle, but more at the ends. " Though 
" the sides of the bridge," says Mr. Jefferson, 
<c are provided in some parts with a parapet of 
" fixed rocks, yet few men have resolution 
" to walk to them and look over into the abyss. 
** You involuntarily fall on your hands and 
<c feet, creep to the parapet, and look over 
" it. Looking down from this height about a 
<c minute gave me a violent head-ache. If the 
" view from the top be painful and intolerable, 
" that from below is delightful in the extreme. 
<c It is impossible for the emotions arising from 
" the sublime to be felt beyond what they are 
" here, on the sight of so beautiful an arch, so 



60 ESSAY III. 

" elevated, so light, springing up as it were to 
cc Heaven. The rapture of the spectator is 
cc really indescribable." 

The theory also accords with another prin- 
ciple which is universally adopted; that a 
rugged and broken surface adds to the sub- 
limity of an object of vast dimensions ; as when 
the side of a mountain, instead of being covered 
with a smooth turf, and varying by gentle 
curvatures, has its rocks projecting in shelves 
and angles. For such an appearance irre- 
sistibly leads our imaginations to the violent 
convulsions of nature by which it was pro- 
duced. 

It is true, that ruggedness frequently appears 
without any symptoms of violence ; as in rocks 
of moderate dimensions, or in ruinous buildings. 
But I apprehend that in this case it does 
not contribute to sublimity, except only when 
it suggests remote antiquity, which is both 
awful and sublime, for reasons that are after- 
wards to be mentioned. Where ruggedness 
suggests neither violence nor antiquity it is 



ON THE SUBLIME. 61 

only picturesque ; a character which, although 
frequently united both with the sublime and 
the beautiful, is perfectly distinct from either. 

It is also agreeable to the theory, that if 
other things are the same, the sublime should 
be felt incomparably stronger when power is 
actually exhibited, than when it is only sug- 
gested. We admire a lofty mountain ; but 
a large fragment of rock, though comparatively 
diminutive, tumbling from its summit, would 
be far more striking. A large body of water at 
rest is a grand object, yet partaking much of 
the beautiful ; but how sublime does it appear, 
when it descends with the impetuosity and 
weight of a cataract : Few sights in the uni- 
verse are nobler than the vast expanse of the 
sea in a calm ; but what words can express our 
emotion, 

When Ocean groaning from his lowest bed 
Heaves his tempestuous billows to the sky !* 

We can also understand, how we ascribe 
sublimity to sounds of uncommon loudness, as 

* Akenside, Pleasures of the Imagination, book 3. 



62 ESSAY III. 

the noise of many waters, the roaring of the 
winds, the shouts of a great multitude, the dis- 
charge of ordnance, or thunder. It proceeds 
not only from the violent concussions by which 
we conceive them to be produced, but still 
more perhaps from a very natural and irre- 
sistible association of ideas. For as all the 
violent actions of great bodies upon each other 
are attended with noise, hence every sound 
of uncommon loudness will suggest the idea of 
violent action, even although we should neither 
see nor know in what the action consists. 
Hence the sublimity of thunder: although no 
concussion is either seen or felt, yet we cannot 
hear it without the imagination of the heavens 
falling into ruins. 

It is a common observation, that the sublimity 
of sounds is increased by their roughness and 
gravity. Now both of these qualities are very 
remarkable in the noises which generally pro- 
ceed from the impetuous dashings of great 
masses on each other. In fact, loudness, 
roughness, and gravity, are the only properties 
of sound which suggest the idea of force. The 



ON THE SUBLIME. 63 

other properties, such as smoothness, sweet- 
ness, shrillness, tend on the contrary to pro- 
duce a state of mind very different from what we 
would call a sublime emotion ; and consequently, 
when they are remarkable, will soften or alter 
the effect, which the loudness would otherwise 
have occasioned. 

The effect of the sublime qualities hitherto 
mentioned is readily accounted for; but we 
meet with others, of which the explanation is 
not so obvious. 

Thus great splendour is universally regarded 
as sublime ; but how do we reconcile it to 
the theory ? Shall we say that it suggests the 
power of the Creator, who diffuses through the 
universe that flood of glory which illuminates 
the depths of space, buried before in eternal 
darkness ? Or shall we say, that it recals to our 
imagination the regions inhabited by the angels 
of bliss, and the Heaven of heavens, where God 
has fixed the throne of his glory in the midst of 
light inaccessible ? These undoubtedly are sub- 
lime ideas j but perhaps the first is too refined, 



64 ESSAY III. 

and the last too serious, to be always present 
when we are affected with splendour. Still, is 
there not a remarkable tendency in splendour 
to inspire us with joy, confidence, and courage, 
and thus to render us conscious of the force of 
our mind, and perhaps to give us a deceitful 
feeling of a still greater force than we actually 
possess ? 

It is perhaps more difficult to account for 
the effects of the colours which are favour- 
able to the sublime. These Mr. Burke reckons 
to be black, and all the fuscous colours, such 
as brown or deep purple, and likewise strong 
red. Thus he observes that a mountain co- 
vered with a shining turf is nothing in respect 
of sublimity to one that is dark and gloomy. 
Now we can scarcely say that such colours 
either exhibit power, or render us conscious 
of it, or any how suggest its idea. Perhaps 
we should go no farther than to say, that 
they somehow predispose the mind to be 
more deeply affected with either the sublime 
or the terrible s and indeed they appear to 



ON THE SUBLIME. 65 

be more peculiarly adapted to the latter than 
to the former.* 

We cannot well doubt that colours have a 
considerable effect on the mind, independently 
of any associated ideas. There is many a co- 
lour which we look upon with pleasure, although 
it be only exhibited in a single detached ribbon, 
or bit of cloth. It is evident too, that children 
are much delighted with these exhibitions. And 
Mr. Cheselden in his Anatomy mentions the case 
of a young man of fourteen, to whom he had 

* This paragraph, which is precisely the same as in the 
first Edition, called forth the following animadversion from 
the incomparable critic who is quoted in the note p. 58 ; 
but it will be proper to prefix the short sentence already- 
transcribed in that note. 

" He (the Author) is peculiarly unfortunate in dwelling 
" upon the sublime effect of looking down a precipice, in- 
" stead of looking up to an equal height, as an illustration 
" of his doctrine, which is so direct a proof of the theory 
" that resolves sublimity into terror. He is equally so in 
te endeavouring to resolve the sublimity of colours into their 
" expressiveness of power ; for it is not conceivable in what 
" manner a mountain that is covered with a dark and 
" gloomy heath should indicate more power than one 
" clothed in verdant turf, though every one is aware that 
" it is much more sublime." British Critic for June, 1810. 

F 



66 ESSAY III. 

given sight by the operation of couching, and 
who was differently affected by the different 
colours the very first time they were presented 
to him. In particular, he was pleased with 
scarlet most of all ; and of the other colours the 
gayest were the most agreeable to him, whereas 
black gave him great uneasiness. 

It may be difficult or impossible to explain 
these facts ; but surely it will not be considered 
as peculiar to the case of colour, that bodily 
sensations should affect, and remarkably too, 
the disposition of the mind. This will be ac- 
knowledged in sound still more readily than 
in colour. Indeed, the thrilling effect, which 
many sounds produce mechanically upon the 
body, renders it sufficiently evident, that their 
influence is not to be ascribed entirely to as- 
sociated ideas. Accordingly it appears highly 
probable, that the state of mind, which sounds 
of uncommon loudness, roughness, and gra- 
vity, would of themselves produce, either co- 
incides with or favours the emotion raised by 
the idea of power, which they irresistibly sug- 
gest. And although the forms which we call 



ON THE SUBLIME. 6? 

sublime may owe their principal effect to the 
imagination, yet it is not unlikely, that the 
emotion is favoured by the impression which 
they make upon the eye. Mr. Burke says, 
that terror is the state of mind produced by 
this impression. It may be so ; and terror will 
certainly dispose us to be more deeply affected 
with the ideas of force and violence, although 
there are insurmountable reasons against ad- 
mitting this emotion to be the characteristic 
of the sublime. 

Again ; what shall we say of another source 
of the sublime mentioned by Mr. Burke, and 
very different from any thing which has yet 
been considered ? namely, the absence, or pri- 
vation, as he calls it, of any of the qualities by 
which external objects manifest themselves to 
our senses of seeing, hearing, or feeling ? Under 
this description are comprehended darkness, 
silence, vacuity, and solitude. These priva- 
tions I apprehend to be rather sources of ter- 
ror, although they often are united to the sub- 
lime, and heighten its effect. And they will 
also become sublime in themselves, when we 

F 2 



68 ESSAY lit. 

consider them as produced by mighty power* 
or when by any association they suggest that 
idea. Of this we have a striking instance 
in the history, ascribed to Mr. Burke, of the 
European settlements in America. In the 
destruction of Callao by the great earthquake, 
it is said that only one man survived $ who 
reported, " that the sea retired to a great 
" distance, and returned in a vast wave; the 
" cry of miserere was heard in the streets, and 
" in a moment all was silent."* 

We have still to consider whence arises 
the sublimity of great or infinite duration, space, 
or numbers. Here it is to be observed, that 
duration destitute of events, and space destitute 
of substances, are among the number of pri- 
vations, and in this view are sources of terror. 
The greater we conceive the duration and the 
space, it is only to wander the longer and the 
farther in darkness, silence, vacuity, and so- 
litude, the most dreary of all contemplations. 

* This man was a sentry on guard, and escaped by 
leaping into a boat which the wave was carrying past 
him. 



ON THE SUBLIME. 69 

Still, however, duration and space may, even in 
the abstract, become sublime, when their great- 
ness or infinity renders us conscious of the power 
of our mind in embracing such ideas, or leads 
our thoughts to the infinity of the divine 
nature. But indeed, without an effort which 
it is not easy to continue, we cannot but as- 
sociate with long duration the great events, 
which have or might have been transacted in 
the course of it, and with immense space the 
mighty objects, with which it either is or might 
be replenished. And we are also to remember, 
that these associations naturally awaken our 
minds to the power of the Almighty, as it is dis- 
played both in creation and in providence. 

There is, besides, a curious association of 
power with the idea of time ; an association, 
which, although it may at first appear an over- 
refinement, yet perhaps upon second thoughts 
will be found natural to every mind. As all 
the most solid and durable productions both of 
art and nature rise to perfection, decay, and 
are destroyed in the course of time; hence 
with the idea of time there is irresistibly con- 



70 ESSAY III. 

nected the idea of the power adequate for ac- 
complishing such mighty changes: insomuch 
that we are scarcely sensible of a metaphor, 
when we ascribe the power to time itself. Thus 
the poet classes time with all that is most ef- 
fectual to destroy ; with iron, and fire, and the 
anger of Jove. 

Jamque opus exegi, quod nee Jovis ira, nee ignes, 
Nee poterit ferrum, nee edax abolere velustas. 

And the association will be more striking, when 
the effects of this supposed power are actually 
before our eyes, as in the ruins of an ancient 
building ; more especially as the real causes of 
that destruction, which naturally takes place in 
the lapse of ages, are not such as readily pre- 
sent themselves to the imagination. Nor is 
the association peculiar to time : we naturally 
ascribe power in like manner to the most subtle 
and visionary things, even to mere negations, 
such as cold or darkness, when they happen to 
be attended with great or alarming effects. 

With regard to numbers, it is perhaps suf- 
ficient to say, that they are not conceivable 



ON THE SUBLIME. 71 

without things numbered -, and that we do not 
ascribe sublimity to numbers, unless there is 
sublimity in the assemblage of the things them- 
selves ; as in a great army, or any vast mul- 
titude of men. If it shall be asserted, that we 
sometimes have a sense of sublimity in the 
contemplation of great abstract numbers, or 
where we pay no attention to any particular 
things that are numbered ; I know not to what 
we are to refer it, but to our admiration at the 
power of the human capacity in arranging and 
operating upon such vast and complicated as- 
semblages. 

The moral sublime consists in the exertions 
of extraordinary force of mind. It is displayed in 
various forms : in that industry which cannot be 
turned aside from its pursuit by labour, or hard- 
ships, or the distance of the acquisition ; in those 
superior abilities, the portion of so small a 
number of the human race, which surmount 
the difficulties that exclude all the rest of the 
world from discovery in science or invention in 
the arts ; in that fortitude, which neither pain, 
nor affliction, nor the threatenings of death and 



72 ESSAY III. 

destruction can subdue ; in that heroic virtue., 
which scorns to yield to the most powerful 
allurements or overwhelming terrors. 

Our admiration is awakened by extraordinary 
force of mind, in whatever form it is displayed, 
and even when unhappily it is exerted for 
unworthy purposes. But it will be readily 
understood, that our admiration is blended 
with different emotions according to the par- 
ticular cases. It is blended with our appro- 
bation or abhorrence of the conduct in a moral 
view ; and with the feelings which arise from 
the consideration of its utility or hurtfulness. 
Moreover, there is for the most part excited 
by sympathy a consciousness of some degree 
of that energy which we admire in others. 
And our sense of the sublime appears to 
consist both in this admiration, and also in the 
sympathetic elevation of our own minds, how- 
ever deceitful or transient this latter feeling may 
too often prove. The vigour which we admire 
in others may indeed be such as to humble, 
not to exalt, our conception of our own 
character; but then our admiration will be 



ON THE SUBLIME. 73 

so much the higher : and thus our sense of the 
sublime will not be diminished, but may be 
greatly increased. 

Upon the whole, the theory suggested by 
Dr. Blair affords a clearer explanation and a 
fuller view of the subject, than any other with 
which I am acquainted. It remains to con- 
sider the principles, which an author ought to 
remember, who turns our attention to sublime 
objects. 

The general principle pointed out by the 
theory is to represent the objects in such a 
manner, as may give us the liveliest idea of 
extraordinary power. But for this purpose a 
different management is required in different 
cases. 

We may first observe, that in representing 
the operations of living agents on external 
objects, our idea of the power will be height- 
ened, the more the operation is wrapped in 
obscurity and mystery; for thus the imagi- 
nation is left at liberty, and even roused to con- 
jecture more than can be told. By neglecting 
this principle, and upon an occasion too which 



74 ESSAY III. 



might well have suggested it, Milton has lost 
much of the effect, that might have been ex- 
pected from his lofty genius on one of the 
grandest of all subjects, the creation of the 
world. Instead of availing himself of its na- 
tural and awful mysteriousness, he has studied 
to render it familiar, by describing it in detail 
as a mechanical process. For example : 

He took the golden compasses, prepar'd 
In God's eternal store, to circumscribe 
The universe and all created things ; 
One foot he centred, and the other turnM.* 

In point of sublimity Milton's description is 
nothing, compare^ with the following verses in 
the passage from the Scripture, of which it is a 
paraphrase. "In the beginning God created 
cc the Heaven and the Earth. And the Earth 
" was without form and void ; and darkness 
" was upon the face of the deep. And the 
fc Spirit of God moved upon the face of the 
cc waters. And God said, Let there be light : 
i c and there was light, "f 
In the description of external objects, our 

* Paradise Lost, Book vii. t Genesis i. 1—3. 



ON THE SUBLIME. 75 

sense of the sublime may be awakened in dif- 
ferent ways. For, in the first place, they may 
be represented as produced, or as acted upon, 
by extraordinary power; and here obscurity 
aiid mystery will heighten the effect. We 
have an admirable example in Milton's address 
to light at the beginning of the third book of 
Paradise Lost : but in quoting this passage I 
shall omit a few lines, which follow the first in 
the original, because they appear to many per- 
sons to confound the literal and metaphorical 
meanings of the word light, and thus to proceed 
on a quibble, which deprives them both of 
sense and sublimity. 

Hail, holy Light ! offspring of Heav'n firstborn ! 
Or hear'st thou rather, pure ethereal stream, 
Whose fountain who shall tell? Before the sun, 
Before the heav'ns thou wert ; and, at the voice 
Of God, as with a mantle didst invest 
The rising world of waters, dark and deep, 
Won from the void and formless infinite. 

Again 5 the external objects themselves may 
be represented as acting with irresistible vio- 
lence. And here it is to be observed, that the 
imagination readily ascribes power, not only to 



76 ESSAY III. 

the solid masses of matter, the action of which 
is manifest, but also, as we formerly remarked., 
to more subtle and visionary agents, such as 
Fire, Frost, Darkness, Time (some of which 
are mere negations), when they happen to be 
attended with great or alarming events. We 
have a good illustration in the following account 
from Thomson's Seasons of the effects of winter 
on the northern coasts of Tartary. Speaking of 
the mountains of ice piled upon these coasts, 
he says — 

Projected huge and horrid o'er the surge 

Alps frown on Alps ; or rushing hideous down^, 

As if old Chaos was again returned, 

Wide rend the deep, and shake the solid pole. 

Ocean itself no longer can resist 

The binding fury ; but, in all its rage* 

Of tempest taken by the boundless frost, 

Is many a fathom to the bottom chain'd, 

And bid to roar no more. * * * * 
************ 

****** Miserable they, 
Who here entangled in the gath'ring ice> 
Take their last look of the descending sun, 
While full of death, and fierce with tenfold frost, 
The long, long night incumbent o'er their heads 
Falls horrible. 



ON THE SUBLIME. 77 

If it does not suit the author's design, to 
represent the objects directly in either of these 
views which have been mentioned, still both of 
these views may be indirectly suggested. For 
the objects may be described in such a manner, 
that we cannot but reflect on the immense 
power, which would be requisite to produce or to 
affect them : and they may also be represented 
as able, or even as threatening, to exert an irre- 
sistible force. Thus when Thomson, a few- 
verses before those which have been just quoted, 
speaks of cc icy mountains high on mountains 
" pil'd;" the awful pile instantly appears to 
the imagination, as if it had been reared at once 
by some tremendous effort, even though we 
know that it has only been a very long and gra- 
dual accumulation of snow showers. At any 
rate, however it may have been formed, now that 
the pile is reared, we are lost in admiration at 
the incomparably more than human might, 
which would be required to move it from its 
base. Again ; when we are told, that 

Projecting huge and horrid o'er the surge 
Alps frown on Alps ; 



78 ESSAY III. 

the imagination, even before the description of 
the event itself, is alarmed at the violence with 
which these enormous masses threaten to crush 
one another, and to plunge into the ocean be- 
neath. 

When the author would in this manner 
suggest the force with which the objects are ca- 
pable of acting, those metaphors which ascribe 
to them life and even sentiment will have a 
natural place, and bring the description nearer 
to the case where the force is actually exerted. 
Such is the figure in the passage now quoted ; 
cc Alps frown on Alps." So likewise Gray, in 
his celebrated ode entitled The Bard : 



On a rock, whose haughty brow 
Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood. 



In the same poem we have another admirable 
example, when the oaks, the caves, and the 
torrents of Snowdon are represented as threaten- 
ing to wreck all their fury on the merciless 
Edward. 



ON THE SUBLIME. 79 

Hark ! how each giant oak and desert cave 
Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath. 
O'er thee, O king, their hundred arms they wave, 
Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe. 



In the moral sublime it is evident, that the 
author ought to represent in as striking a 
view as possible, on the one hand, the difficulties 
to be surmounted, and on the other, the vigour 
of mind with which they are encountered. I 
know nothing of the kind, which equals in point 
of masterly execution Satan's reflections on his 
own misery, in his address to the sun. But the 
picture is so shocking, that, sublime as it is, we 
turn from it with pain and abhorrence. It 
is true, that the more dreadful we conceive his 
misery, we must so much the more admire 
his undaunted resolution. But it is to be re- 
marked, that although admiration of great 
power, and particularly of mental energy, is a 
lively emotion, yet several other emotions, such 
as terror, pity, and the tender affections, are 
far more interesting, and may be raised so high 
as not only to engross, but to overwhelm the 



80 ESSAY III. 

mind. Accordingly in the passage whidi we 
are now considering the horrible is so pre- 
dominant, that the fainter emotions of the 
sublime are little distinguished. 

Me miserable ! which way shall I fly 
Infinite wrath and infinite despair ? 
Which way I fly is Hell ; myself am Hell ; 
And, in the lowest deep, a lower deep, 
Still threatening to devour me, opens wide, 
To which the Hell I suffer seems a Heav'n. 

Besides, our abhorrence of a wickedness so 
desperate, that even such misery could not 
subdue it, diminishes not only the pleasure, but 
even the sensation of grandeur. But the ex- 
hibition of a depravity less shocking may leave 
us still open to the admiration of uncommon 
fortitude ; while our admiration will be increased 
by the terrors to be encountered, if they are 
less hideous, and less beyond our conception of 
what the utmost human vigour is able to endure. 
Of this we have a good instance in the following 
animated description by Sallust of the conduct 
of Catiline and his army, when they were de- 
stroyed by the forces of the state. 



ON THE SUBLIME. 81 

* " Postquam fusas copias, seque cum pau- 
€C cis relictum videt Catilina; memor generis 
" atque pristinse dignitatis suae, in confestis- 
c f simos hostes incurrit, ibique pugnans con- 
< c foditur. Sed confecto prcelio, turn vero 
" cerneres quanta audacia quantaque animi vis 
<c fuisset in exercitu Catilinae. Nam fere 
" quern quisque vivus pugnando locum ce= 
u perat, eum amissa anima corpore tegebat. 
•* Pauci autem quos medios cohors praetoria 
** disjecerat, paallo diversius, sed omnes ta- 
" men adversis vuineribus conciderant. Ca- 
" tilina vero, longe a suis inter hostium 
" cadavera repertus est, paululum etiam spi- 

* After Catiline sees his forces destroyed, and but a few 
remaining to support him ; mindful of his family and 
former dignity, he rushes into the thickest of the enemy, 
and there fights till he is slain. But when the battle was 
over, then indeed you might perceive what boldness and 
force of mind had been exerted by Catiline's army. For 
almost every one covered with his dead body the place 
which he had occupied in the fight. Only a few in the 
middle, whom the pretorian cohort had broken, fell a little 
scattered, yet all with honourable wounds. But it was far 
from his soldiers, and amidst the bodies of his slaughtered 
enemies that Catiline was found, still breathing a little, and 
his features still animated with his natural ferocity, 

G 



32 ESSAY III. 

" rans, ferociamque animi quam habuerat vivus 
f< in vultu retinens." 

But it is a far more delightful, as well as 
useful display of the moral sublime, when the 
vigour of mind discovers itself in virtuous ex- 
ertions 5 where a good man struggles undaunted 
with the storms of adversity, braves all hard- 
ships and dangers in some honourable pursuit, 
or deliberately prefers destruction to disgrace. 
" Ecce spectaculum dignum in quod res- 
" piciat, operi suo intentus, Deus -, bonum 
" virum cum magnis infortuniis colluctan- 
" tem."* 

In all the cases which have been mentioned 
since the observations on the theory, the ter- 
rible, and sometimes the distressful, are more 
or less incorporated with the sublime; and 
may be employed on many occasions, either 
to increase our idea of the power, or to main- 
tain that serious frame, which is necessary for 



* Here is a sight which God may vouchsafe to regard, 
for such virtue is his own work ; a good man struggling 
with great calamities, Seneca. 



ON THE SUBLIME, S3 

the full effect. Thus, Milton in the description 
of Satan at the head of his infernal hosts : 

He, above the rest 
In shape and gesture proudly eminent, 
Stood like a tow'r. His form had not yet lost 
All her original brightness, nor appear'd 
Less than archangel ruin'd, and th* excess 
Of glory obscured : As when the sun new ris'n 
Looks through the horizontal misty air, 
Shorn of his beams ; or from behind the moon. 
In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds 
On half the nations, and with fear of change 
Perplexes monarchs. Darkened so, yet shone 
Above them all th' archangel. 

In the representation of external objects, 
both the sublime and the terrible may be height- 
ened, and also the distressful brought forward, 
by the introduction of living creatures, par- 
ticularly human beings ; a circumstance which 
has so fine an effect, that it ought never 
to be omitted, if we wish to render interesting 
any description of inanimate nature. We 
cannot but feel how grand and awful Milton 
has rendered the eclipse of the sun by this very 
circumstance. And we have also remarkable 

G2 



&§ ESSAY III. 

instances in the passages already quoted from 
Gray's ode, and from Thomson's account of 
the Polar winter. 

In the cases which we are now consider- 
ing, terror will be a good preparation fo ren- 
der us more sensible either of that awful 
power, which is displayed in the natural 
sublime, or of those alarms or distresses, which 
in the moral sublime call forth and prove the 
vigour of mind. We have a fine example in 
the song of Mador, the chief of the bards, in 
Mason's Caractacus. The beginning of it might 
be quoted as a specimen of the terrible : but 
we are at present to observe, that it prepares 
us for the highest admiration of the enthusiastic 
courage described in this animated ode. 

I. 1. 

Hark ! heard ye not yon footstep dread. 
That shook the earth with thund'ring tread ? 

'Twas Death. — In haste 

The warrior past ; 
High towVd his helmed head, 
I mark'd his mail, I mark'd his shield, 
I spied the sparkling of his spear, 
I saw his giant arm the falchion wield ; 
Wide wav'd the bickering blade, and fir'd the angry air. 



ON THE SUBLIME, S5 

I. 2. 
On me, he cried, my Britons, wait j 
To lead you to the field of fate 

I come : yon car, 

That cleaves the air, 
Descends to throne my state. 
I mount your champion and your god ; 
My proud steeds neigh beneath the thong : 
Hark ! to my wheels of brass that rattle loud ! 
Hark ! to my clarion shrill* that brays the woods amongl 

I. 3. 

Fear not now the fever's fire, 
Fear not now the death-bed groan, 
Pangs that torture, pains that tire, 
Bedrid age with feeble moan. 
These domestic terrors wait, 
Hourly at my palace gate ; 
And when o'er slothful realms my rod I wave, 
These on the tyrant king and coward slave 
Hush with vindictive rage, and drag them to the grave. 

II. 1. 

But you, my sons, at this dread hour 
Shall share the fulness of my pow'n 

From all your bows, 

In levelled rows, 
My own dread shafts shall show'r. 
Go then to conquest, gladly go, 
Deal forth my dole of destiny ; 
With all my fury dash the trembling foe 
Down to those darksome cells, where Rome's pale spectres 
lie, 



S6 ESSAY III. 

II. 2. 
Where creeps the ninefold stream profound 
Her black inexorable round, 

And on the bank 

To willows dank 
The shiv'ring ghosts are bound. 
Twelve thousand crescents all shall swell 
To full orb'd pride, and all decline, 
Ere they again in life's gay mansions dwell. 
Not such the meed, that crowns the sons of freedom's line ; 

II. 3. 

No, my Britons, battle-slain ! 
Rapture gilds your parting hour ; 
I, that all despotic reign, 
Claim but there a moment's power. 
Swiftly the soul of British flame 
Animates some kindred frame, 
Swiftly to life and light triumphant flies, 
Exults again in martial ecstasies, 
Again for freedom fights, again for freedom dies. 

Pity, and the tender affections, where the 
case permits, will introduce the moral sublime 
with great effect. When we detest a person, 
our admiration of his fortitude is extorted 
from us, and mixed with unpleasant feelings: 
whereas it is cordial and delightful, if we are 
attached to him either from pity to his suf- 



ON THE SUBLIME. 87 

ferings, or from regard to his amiable qualities ; 
and no character is so engaging, as that which 
unites heroic fortitude to a kind and com- 
passionate heart. Besides, we approach the 
persons of the miserable not only with pity and 
affection, but with a certain degree of rever- 
ence also - s a state of mind highly favourable to 
increase our admiration of their magnanimous 
exertions. Mason likewise affords us a good 
specimen of such a preparation in the last 
scene of Caractacus. The unhappy king, de- 
graded and ruined in his old age, bewails in 
these lines the death of his son : 



Yes, best lov'd boy, 
Yes, I can weep, can fall upon thy corse, 
And I can tear my hairs, these few gray hairs, 
The only honours war and age have left me. 
Ah, son ! thou might'st have rul'd o'er many nations, 
As did thy royal ancestry ; but I, 
Rash that I was, ne'er knew the golden curb 
Discretion hangs on bravery; else perchance 
These men, that fasten fetters on thy father, 
Had su'd to him for peace, and claim'd his friendship. 



Aulus Didius takes this occasion to remind him 



88 ESSAY III. 

of his obstinacy in opposing the power of the 

Romans ; 

But thou wast still implacable to Rome, 
And scorn'd her friendship. 

Caractacus, starting from the dead body of his 
son, instantly replies, 

Soldier, I bad arms, 
Had neighing steeds to whirl my iron cars, 
Had wealth, dominion. Dost thou wonder, Roman, 
I fought to save thenf? 

The sublime is not always so intimately 
united with the terrible, and far less with the 
distressful. On the contrary, the mighty power 
which we admire may be exerted in acts of 
protection and of bounty; it may be the foun- 
dation of our security, enjoyment, and hope. 
And, in general, whatever has a remarkable 
influence to inspire the mind with confidence 
and courage, will from that very circumstance 
be felt as sublime. In such cases it is evident, 
that the power ought not to be described with 
that awful mysteriousness, which has so great 
an effect on other occasions. The terrible and 
the distressful, if they are brought forward at 
all, ought to be touched with a gentler hand, 



ON THE SUBLIME. 89 

and employed only by way of introduction or 
contrast, to improve our feeling of the happier 
and more encouraging representations. 

In this spirit is the following passage from 
Thomson's hymn at the conclusion of the Sea- 
sons : 

Should Fate command me to the farthest verge 
Of the green earth, to hostile barbarous climes, 
Kivers unknown to song, where first the sun 
Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam 
Flames on the Atlantic Isles ; 'tis nought to me. 
Since God is ever present, ever felt 
In the void waste as in the city full, 
Holls the same kindred seasons round the world, 
In all apparent, wise and good in all. 

The beginning of the morning hymn of our 
first parents, though it contains no contrast 
with terror or distress, is still a finer specimen 
of the elevating sublime : 

These are thy glorious works, Parent of good, 

Almighty ! thine this universal frame. 

Thus wondrous fair; thyself how wondrous then ! 

Unspeakable, who sitt'st above these heavens, 

To us invisible, or dimly seen 

In these thy lowest works ; yet these declare 

Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine. 



90 ESSAY III. 

Speak ye who best can tell, ye sons of light, 
Angels ; for ye behold him, and with songs 
And choral symphonies, day without night, 
Circle his throne rejoicing.* 

The most delightful, as well as useful pur- 
poses for which the sublime can be introduced 
into composition, are to awaken us to the 
magnificence of nature, and the infinite ma- 
jesty of its Divine Author ; to inspire us with 
courage in the paths of honour and duty ; to 
rouse us to the emulation of heroic virtue ; to 
render us superior to the ills of life, and to the 
slavery of ignoble passions, by reminding us of 
the dignity and the prospects of the human 
soul. 

The Scriptures afford us the noblest ex- 
amples. In what glory is all nature arrayed, 
when we are led by the Psalmist to look be- 
yond the outward appearance of things to 
that God, who pervades and actuates the 
universe! " Bless the Lord, O my soul. O 
" Lord my God, thou art very great; thou 
cc art clothed with honour and majesty : who 

* Paradise Lost, Book V. 



ON THE SUBLIME. 91 

" coverest thyself with light as with a gar- 
<c ment : who stretchest out the heavens like a 
" curtain : who layeth the beams of his cham- 
** bers in the waters : who maketh the clouds 
" his chariot : who walketh upon the wings of 
" the wind: who maketh his angels spirits; his 
" ministers a flaming fire : who laid the found- 
" ations of the earth, that it should not be re- 
" moved for ever.* 

How happy and how virtuous an elevation 
is inspired, when we are taught, that he who 
created the host of Heaven vouchsafes to visit 
man on earth, and has given him a kindred 
nature with the celestial powers. " When I 
<c consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers, 
" the moon and the stars which thou hast 
" ordained ; What is man, that thou art mind- 
" ful of him ? and the son of man, that thou 
" visitest him ? For thou hast made him a 
U little lower than the angels, and hast crowned 
" him with glory and honour."f It is true 
that St. Paul considers this passage to be 

* Psalm 104. f Psalm 8. 



92 ESSAY III. 

applicable to the Messiah in its higher meaning : 
but it is evident, that it has also a more gene- 
ral meaning, and refers to the native dignity 
of man, who was formed in the image, and is 
still protected by the fatherly care of the 
Almighty. 

In the hundred and third psalm, after an 
affecting description of the mercy of the Lord 
to his servants in their present state of frailty 
and mortality, the sublime is introduced with 
singular address to raise them to the most de- 
lightful hopes, by representing their gracious 
protector as the Sovereign of Nature, whom 
the angels serve, and the universe obeys 
throughout all its immensity. "Like as a father 
" pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them 
<c that fear him. For he knoweth our frame, 
" he remembereth that we are dust. As 
" for man, his days are as grass : as a flower 
" of the field so he flourisheth. For the wind 
sc passeth over it, and it is gone; and the 
"■ place thereof shall know it no more. But 
" the mercy of the Lord is from everlasting to 
" everlasting upon them that fear him, and his 



ON THE SUBLIME. 93 

*? righteousness unto children's children ; to 
" such as keep his covenant, and to those that 
" remember his commandments to do them. — 
" The Lord hath prepared his throne in the 
" heavens; and his kingdom ruleth over alL 
" Bless the Lord, ye his angels, that excel in 
" strength, that do his commandments, heark- 
<c ening unto the voice of his word. Bless ye 
" the Lord, all ye his hosts ; ye ministers of 
<c his, that do his pleasure. Bless the Lord, all 
'* his works, in all places of his dominion, 
" Bless the Lord, O my soul." 

While the sublime may be thus employed 
to animate our best and happiest feelings, 
yet on the other hand it may sometimes dazzle 
us so far, that the most destructive vices 
shall not appear in their real colours; that 
we shall not only admire the unconquerable 
fortitude of Marius, but also be less shocked 
with his vindictive cruelty 5 that the desperate 
courage of Catiline shall palliate his unprin- 
cipled treason ; and the magnanimity of Cesar 
atone for his unjust ambition. Care, there- 
fore, ought to be taken, that what we should 



94 ESSAY III. 

detest and avoid, may be pointed out in as 
striking a light as what we should admire and 
imitate. 

But useful and delightful as the sublime may 
be rendered, an author should not endeavour to 
keep our imagination long upon the stretch : for 
either our attention will flag, or the effort will 
become irksome, and even our sensibility decay. 
We require to be relieved with what is more 
familiar, or engaged with what is more interest- 
ing. Hence it is, that in spite of the masterly 
execution, it becomes tedious to read from end 
to end the first two books of Paradise Lost : 
while we are much longer attracted by the 
^Eneid or the Odyssey, in which the elevation 
is far from being either so high or so constant. 



ESSAY IV. 



ON TERROR. 



It must appear at first sight not a little sur- 
prising, that terror should in any case be a 
source of pleasure. Yet every one knows, 
however difficult it may be to give a satis- 
factory account of it, that the compositions 
which agitate with terror are extremely at- 
tractive: Children, in spite of very uneasy 
feelings, listen with eagerness to the most 
dreadful tales of robberies, murders, and spec- 
tres. Even real scenes of terror, an execution, 
a conflagration, or a shipwreck, would draw 
numerous spectators from the gayest assembly, 
without the smallest expectation of affording 
any relief to the sufferers. 

This pleasure has been ascribed to a secret 



96 ESSAY IV. 

comparison of the danger of others with our 

own security. So Lucretius, in the well-known 

passage at the beginning of his second book : 

Suave, mari magno, turbantibus sequora ventis, 
E terra magnum alterius spectare laborem. 
Non quia vexari quemquam. est jucunda voluptas, 
Sed quibus ipse malis eareas quia cernere suave est. 
Suave etiam belli certamina magna tueri 
Per campos instructa,, tua sine parte pericli. 

Such a comparison is no doubt highly agree- 
able, and forms a considerable part of the 
pleasure derived from the view of terrible 
scenes. But we are farther to observe, that 
the agitation of terror itself appears to be 
delightful, when it does not bear too great a 
proportion to our strength of mind. The 
danger of a fox-chase is not its least attraction. 
And there are persons who languish in ease 
and luxury, but whose spirits are elevated 
amidst the alarms of war. Bishop Burnet, 
who lived long with King William, gives the 
following account of him : " His behaviour 
" was solemn and serious, seldom cheerful, 
" and but with a few. He spoke little and 
u yer y slowly, and most commonly with a 



ON TERROR. 97 

* disgusting dryness, which was his character 
" at all times, except in a day of battle ; for 
"■ then he was all fire, though without passion : 
" he was then every- where, and looked to 
" every thing."* Thus we see, that even the 
presence of real danger serves only to enliven 
certain minds, not to distress them. And we 
can easily conceive, that the most timorous 
may receive a pleasing agitation from the gentler 
movements, which are excited by descriptions 
and tales of terror. 

Nor ought it to be considered as an ex- 
traordinary fact in our nature, that the same 
emotion, which is painful and intolerable in its 
higher degrees, should yet be delightful in its 
gentler movements. Mr. Burke has well ob- 
served in his Inquiry into the Sublime, that there 
are analogous instances, in which it will be 
readily acknowledged, that a given cause pro- 
duces pleasure or pain according to its in- 
tensity. The most delightful fragrance be- 
comes insupportable, when it is much increased, 

* Conclusion of the Reign of King William. 
H 



9$ ESSAY IV. 

Too great sweetness cloys and disgusts; while 
acidity and bitterness refresh, when diluted. 
Nothing is more enlivening than moderate 
sunshine, or more insufferable than the full 
glare of the vertical sun. 

Beside these causes of pleasure, which have 
been mentioned, we are to remember, that the 
unusual and alarming situation, in which the 
characters are represented, must awaken our 
curiosity both with regard to their fate, and 
with regard to their conduct and appearance, 
in circumstances where the utmost fortitude, 
or fortitude more than human, would be re- 
quisite for their support. And, perhaps, it is in 
the gratification of this curiosity, that the plea- 
sure of many persons chiefly consists. 

If to all this we add, that the imagination 
may be elevated to the sublimest conceptions > 
and that the gentler and endearing emotions of 
pity, with all the charms of composition, may 
be blended to soften the dreadful : it would 
appear, that we may account in a satisfactory 
manner for the pleasure, which may be derived 



ON TERROR. 99 

from writings, whose object is to raise our 
terror. 

We are now to consider the principles, which 
an author ought to observe in those passages, 
where terror is to be the chief source of plea- 
sure. 

In the first place he is to remember, that 
the effect of terrible objects is greatly heighten- 
ed by obscurity. A particular, and still more a 
minute description defeats its own purpose. 
Even when the objects are before us, our ter- 
ror is much diminished, as soon as we can 
prevail upon ourselves to look at them steadily. 
There is then no longer room for the ex- 
aggeration of the fancy, which produces by 
far the greatest part of the emotion. The 
description ought, therefore, to be conducted 
by alarming hints, and in such a manner as to 
leave an uncertainty with regard to the extent 
of what is dangerous or dreadful in the objects 
represented. " How now," says Macbeth to 
the weird sisters, when he went to their cave at 
the dead hour of night, 

H 2 



100 ESSAY IV. 

How now, ye secret, black, and midnight hags, 
Whatis'tyedo? 

Their answer is, 

A deed without a name. 

In Paradise Lost, when Raphael relates to 
our first parents the history of the apostate 
angels, our horror at the fate of their leader 
is greatly increased by a stroke of the same 
kind, but of still higher effect. It is where 
Raphael says, that the angelic host were 
reposing, 

Save those who, in their course, 
Melodious hymns about the sov'reign throne 
Alternate all night long. But not so wak'd 
Satan ; so call him now, his former name 
Is heard no more in Heav'n. Book V. 

Although Lucan's description of the magical 
rites of Erictho, the Thessalian sorceress, is in 
several places both tedious and disgusting, yet 
it contains some masterly strokes; and par- 
ticularly in the following lines, where Erictho 
chides the delay of the furies, we have a good 



ON TERROR. 101 

instance of the effect of obscurity in magnifying 
the horrible. 

Shall I now call you, says Erictho, by your 
real names ? And thou, O Hecate, who art 
wont to approach the gods with a far different 
aspect, not thine own, shall I show thee as 
thou art, with thy pale livid form, and forbid 
thee to change thy face of Hell ? Shall I tell 
the banquets, which detain thee under the 
ponderous earth ? the union in which thou 
hast joined thyself to the grim king of dark- 
ness ? the pollutions which have made thee 
an abomination to thy mother ? Do you obey ? 
or must He be called, at whose invocation the 
earth itself cannot but shudder ? He, who 
beholds the Gorgons in all their horrors, 
and chastises with his scourge the trembling 
furies ? He, who reigns in a lower deep, 
which ye have not seen, in a Hell to which 
yours is Heaven. 

Jam vos ego nomine vero 
Eliciam? ***** 
Teque Deis, ad quos alio procedere vultu 
Ficta soles, Hecate, pallenti livida forma 



102 ESSAY IV. 

Ostendam, faciemque Erebi mutare vetabo ? 
Eloquar, immenso terrse sub pondere quae te 
Contineant, Ennaea, dapes ? quo foedere moestum 
Regem noctis ames ? quae te contagia passam 

Noluerit revocare Ceres ? * * * * 

* * * ***** 

* * * * Paretis? an Me 
Compellandus erit, quo nunquam terra vocato 
Non concussa tremit ? qui Gorgona cernit apertam, 
Verberibusque suis trepidam castigat Erinnyn ; 
Indespecta tenet vobis qui Tartara, cujus 

Vos estis superi.* 

In Satan's address to the Sun, Milton has 
introduced, but with a still more awful effect, 
the stroke which has been last quoted from 
Luc an : 

In the lowest deep, a lower deep, 

Still threatening to devour me, opens wide, 

To which the Hell I suffer seems a Heav'n. 

Upon the same principle, in paintings and 
theatrical representations, the objects of terror 
ought to be placed in obscurity. The witches 
in Macbeth, and the ghost in Hamlet, as they 
are generally represented, have rather a ludi- 
crous effect. But I am persuaded it would 

* Pharsalia, lib. vi. 



ON TERROR. 103 

be very different, if they were removed to a 
great distance at the bottom of the stage, and 
seen as obscurely as possible. It was a good 
observation of an exquisite artist,* that he 
could conceive a picture in which no human 
figure, nor action, nor any object very ter- 
rible in itself was represented, which yet 
should raise a high degree of horror. Such, 
he imagined, would be the effect of a pic- 
ture representing a bedchamber, with a lady's 
slipper and a bloody dagger on the floor ^ 
and at the door, the foot of a man as just 
leaving the room. I have heard of a remark- 
able picture of the Deluge by Poussin, which 
was formerly in the gallery of the Luxembourg 
palace, at Paris. The only vestige of man- 
kind was the ark, seen dimly through the haze 
in the distant back ground ; and the only living 
creatures were in the fore ground, a horse 
drowning, hurried down by a torrent from the 
hills, and only his head above water; and a 
huge snake winding up the hill, as if to escape 

* The late Mr. John Brown, of Edinburgh. 



104 ESSAY IV. 

from the inundation in the valley below. The 
colouring of the whole was uniform, dull, and 
dreary, like that of a very rainy, hazy No- 
vember day. The gentleman from whom I 
received this information mentioned also an- 
other picture, or sketch, by Raphael, which he 
thinks was in the Vatican. It is a repre- 
sentation of the Plague. The scene is a street, 
quite still and desolate, with only a starved 
cow in the back ground, reminding us at once 
of famine in the country and solitude in the 
town ; and in the fore ground, one small group, 
a man, wife, and infant ; the woman just dead ; 
the child wanting to suck her breast ; the father 
with one hand endeavouring gently to push the 
child away, and with the other hand covering 
his own nostrils, and turning aside his head. 
How much more awful are the few hints 
selected by these great masters, than if the 
pictures had been crowded with objects of 
horror. 

One great advantage of language above 
painting is this, that the author has it in his 



ON TERROR. 105 

power to prepare us for the great impression. 
Now, in order that scenes of terror may have 
their full effect, we should previously be brought 
to a serious, and even a melancholy frame, and 
startled by sudden and obscure alarms. And 
the effect will be still more powerful, if we have 
been weakened by compassion. 

In the first scene of Hamlet we are well pre- 
pared for the entry of the ghost, merely by hav- 
ing our attention turned to sublime objects, 
together with a single hint to alarm us. " Last 
" night of all," says Bernardo, to the officers 
who were on watch with him at midnight, and 
who had heard of the apparition ; 

Last night of all, 
When yon same star, that's westward from the pole, 
Had made his course t* illume that part of Heaven, 
Where now it burns ; Marcellus and myself, . 
The bell then beating one 

" Peace, break thee off," interrupted Mar- 
cellus, cc Look where it comes again." 

The introduction to Mador's song in Mason's 
Caractacus, which has been quoted in the fore- 



106 ESSAY IV. 

going Essay on the Sublime, is an excellent 
preparation for the images of terror with which 
the song begins, while these images serve, as 
we have already remarked, to introduce the 
sublime with great effect. 

There is a fine instance of the effect of pity 
as a preparation for the most dreadful horrors, 
in a German ballad which has been translated 
by a gentleman of Edinburgh, of high poetical 
genius, in the year 1796> under the title of 
William and Helen. The same poem was also 
translated under the title of Leonora, and accom- 
panied with exquisite drawings by Lady Diana 
Beauclerc. 

There is yet another way, in which terror 
may be introduced with a very striking effect -, 
and that is, when it rises unexpectedly in the 
midst of a state of security, hope, or joy. But 
although the contrast will heighten the horrors, 
yet it is to be remembered, that this preparatory 
scene ought to be somewhat solemn or pathetic ; 
otherwise the transition might be ludicrously 
abrupt. Goldsmith gives a fine instance in his 
beautiful and interesting novel of the Vicar of 



ON TERROR. 107 

Wakefield. The tender father was returning 
home at night, to prepare his family for the re- 
ception of his unfortunate child Olivia. " My 
<c heart/' he says, cc caught new sensations of 
cc pleasure, the nearer I approached that peace- 
" ful mansion. As a bird that had been fright- 
c< ed from its nest, my affections outwent my 
cc haste, and hovered round my little fire-side 
lc with all the rapture of expectation. I called 
cc up the many fond things I had to say, and 
cc anticipated the welcome I was to receive. I 
" already felt my wife's tender embrace, and 
" smiled at the joy of my little ones. As I 
* c walked but slowly, the night waned apace. 
" The labourers of the day were all retired to 
cc rest; the lights were out in every cottage; 
" no sounds were heard but of the shrilling 
" cock, and the deep-mouthed watch-dog, at 
*S hollow distance. I approached my little 
" abode of pleasure, and before I was within a 
" furlong of the place, our honest mastiff came 
" running to welcome me. 

" It was now near midnight, that I came to 
" knock at my door : all was still and silent : 



108 ESSAY IV. 

<c my heart dilated with unutterable happiness, 
<c when, to my amazement, I saw the house 
•? bursting out in a blaze of fire, and every 
cc aperture red with conflagration. I gave a 
ci loud convulsive outcry, and fell upon the 
" pavement insensible." 

But although the reader or spectator should 
be prepared for receiving the impressions of 
terror as forcibly as may be, it is not to be 
understood, that the approach of the particular 
object which is to raise it should be gradual, nor 
yet that it should be announced. On the con- 
trary, the more suddenly it presents itself, the 
effect will be the greater. Hence I am inclined 
to think, that the witches in Macbeth ought 
not to have been heard of till the appearance of 
the general and his officers returning from the 
dangers of battle, and overtaken by a storm in 
the midst of the heath ; for thus the audience 
would not only be in a frame fit for receiving 
the full force of the impression, but also the im- 
pression itself would be made more abruptly. 

The observations which have been made con- 
cerning the effect of obscurity, uncertainty, and 



ON TERROR. 109 

alarms, of preparation, and of abruptness, sug- 
gest a remark of great importance. It is this ? 
that the situation in which terror is carried to 
the utmost height, which the case will admit, 
is a state of suspense, when we know that some 
dreadful evil is every moment ready to fall on 
us, but at the same time have no distinct know- 
ledge of its nature or degree ; while our appre- 
hensions are always kept alive by some new 
alarm, which seems to indicate the instant ap- 
proach of the evil in all its horrors. We have 
an admirable example in the German ballad 
entitled Earl Walter, or the Chase. The hard- 
hearted oppressor, in his furious sport, had 
trampled on every obligation, human and di- 
vine ; whence, as well as from the alarm given 
to the imagination by the introduction of the 
two unknown strangers, the one entreating him 
to return to reason, the other encouraging him 
in his madness, we are prepared to expect the 
most awful events. He comes up with his reti- 
nue, and horns and hounds in full cry, to a 
lonely hut, where the stag had taken refuge, 
the cell of a venerable hermit, whose- mild 



110 ESSAY IV. 

entreaties he answers with blasphemy and brutal 
scorn. 

He spurs his horse, he winds his horn, 
tc Hark forward, forward, holla, ho !"— * 

But off, on whirlwind's pinions borne, 
The stag, the hut, the hermit go ; 

And horse and man, and horn and hound, 

And clamour of the chase was gone : 
For hoofs, and howls, and bugle sound, 

A deadly silence reign'd alone. 

Wild gaz'd the affrighted Earl around ; — 

He strove in vain to wake his horn, 
In vain to call ; for not a sound 

Could from his anxious lips be borne. 

He listens for his trusty hounds ; 

No distant baying reach'd his ears ; 
His courser, rooted to the ground, 

The quick'ning spur unmindful bears. 

Still dark and darker round it spreads, 

Dark as the darkness of the grave ; 
And not a sound the still invades, 

Save what a distant torrent gave. 

High o'er the sinner's humbled head 

At length the solemn silence broke : 
And from a cloud of swarthy red, 

Tbe awful voice of thunder spoke. 



ON TERROR. HI 



" Oppressor of creation fair ! 

" Apostate spirits' harden'd tool ! 
" Scorner of God ! scourge of the poor ! 

" The measure of thy cup is full. 

" Go hunt for ever through the wood, 
" For ever roam the affrighted wild ; 

" And let thy fate instruct the proud, 
" God's meanest creature is his child." 

'Twas hush'd : one flash of sombre glare 
With yellow ting'd the forests brown $ 

Up rose Earl Walter's bristling hair, 
And horror chilTd each nerve and bone, 

Cold pour'd the sweat in freezing rill : 

A rising wind began to sing ; 
And louder, louder, louder still, 

Brought storm and tempest on its wing. 

The earth is rock'd, it quakes, it rends ; 

From yawning rifts with many a yelK, 
MixM with sulphureous flames, ascend 

The misbegotten dogs of Hell. 

What ghastly huntsman next arose, 
Well may I guess, but dare not tell : 

His eye like midnight lightning glows, 
His steed the swarthy hue of Hell 



112 ESSAY IV. 

Earl Walter flies o'er bush and thorn, 
With many a shriek of helpless woe ; &c* 

The poem which we have just quoted reminds 
us of another important principle, too frequent- 
ly overlooked : that for rendering works of this 
kind more pleasing, and more instructive also, 
it is the guilty only who should be the victims 
of horror, more especially if the horror be in- 
flicted by supernatural means. This, however, 
is not to be understood, as if it were improper 
to represent the most innocent or virtuous cha- 
racters in a dreadful situation. The appearance 
even of an angel from Heaven with the most 

* This ballad o£ Earl Walter was published along with 
that formerly mentioned of William and Helen, being both 
translated by the same hand. Both translations are of dis- 
tinguished merit; but perhaps the former is in a more 
finished and masterly manner. But since these translations 
were printed, the author of them, Walter Scott, Esquire, has 
acquired great and deserved celebrity by his original 
compositions, particularly by the Lay of the Last Minstrel, 
Marmion, and the Lady of the Lake, in which a minute 
acquaintance with the history and antiquities of his country 
is happily united to a poetical genius of the highest order. 



ON TERROR. 113 

joyful tidings would be at first alarming to the 
very best of mankind. Besides, it may have a 
good effect to employ terror as a trial of inte- 
grity, or of fortitude : as when in the Gerusa- 
lemme Liberata, Rinaldo braves the horrible 
phantoms of the enchanted forest. Still, how- 
ever, we must be shocked, when the innocent, 
or when venial offenders, are pursued and over- 
whelmed with those Gorgon terrors, those more 
awful marks of Heaven's vengeance, which we 
naturally conceive to be reserved for the more 
hardened and atrocious criminal. We see some 
propriety in the horrible fate of Earl Walter : 
but in the poem of William and Helen we are 
grievously shocked, that some foolish words 
uttered by a harmless girl in the phrensy of 
despair should be instantly followed by so signal 
and awful a punishment. We could bear that 
she should endure the horrors of such a dream, 
to teach her resignation, and reconcile her to her 
lot : but that the punishment should be actually 
inflicted, does not accord with our feelings, or 
with our natural ideas of Providence. 

The same defect is to be found in two 

m 

I 



114 ESSAY IV. - 

Greek tragedies of uncommon merit, the 
CEdipus Tyrannus, and the CEdipus Coloneus, 
the former of which has been generally con- 
sidered as the masterpiece of the Athenian 
theatre. The unhappy prince is led by a 
series of untoward events, in which he had 
little or rather no blame, to kill his father and 
to marry his mother. The first tragedy repre- 
sents his gradual discovery of his dreadful si- 
tuation ; upon which he tears out his eyes 
with his own hands, and dooms himself to per- 
petual exile as an outcast of Heaven and 
Earth. In the second drama we find him 
wandering in these miserable circumstances, 
driven and goaded on by the furies, as if he 
were in reality the most guilty of mortals, till 
he reaches their accursed grove in the neigh- 
bourhood of Athens, where he perishes by an 
unknown death, unseen and unheard. Now, 
although both of these tragedies possess high 
merit, as exhibitions of terror, yet they cer- 
tainly would have "been more pleasing, if the 
character of CEdipus had been less unsuitable 
to. his fate.. 



ON TERROR. 115 

Here it is proper to caution the English 
reader against trusting implicitly to Franklin's 
translation ; for although it is in general a 
good one, yet some passages are wrested, and 
even some expressions, not to be found in 
the original, are added, to insinuate the idea, 
that CEdipus was a haughty and impious 
prince. But I will venture to assert;, that 
any person, who reads the original, will be im- 
pressed with a most favourable opinion of his 
character. 

Another fault, not unfrequent in passages 
of terror, is too great minuteness in the de- 
scription of disgusting objects. It is true, that 
such objects often accompany, or are united 
with the terrible : but as they never can be 
pleasing in themselves, they ought not to be 
represented any farther than to give to the 
terrible its full effect; and it has been already 
observed, that it is not by minuteness of de- 
scription the full effect is to be obtained. We 
have glaring examples of this mistake in Mil- 
ton's picture of Sin, and Lucan's account of the 
Thessalian Sorceries. 

18 



116 ESSAY IV. 

On the contrary, it should be remembered, 
that in a poetical imagination the most na- 
tural as well as the finest union of the terrible 
is with the sublime. In fact, although these 
two characters are quite distinct from each 
other, yet they have a near affinity, and in 
every instance, perhaps, where the sublime 
appears in external nature, it is united with 
more or less of the terrible. Milton affords a 
noble instance of the effect of this union in 
a description of the most horrible of all scenes. 
The passage is part of Belial's speech to the 
fallen angels, when they first deliberate about 
the conduct which they ought to pursue. 

Wherefore icease we then ? 
Say they who counsel war ; we are decreed, 
Reserved and destin'd to eternal woe ; 
Whatever doing, what can we suffer more, 
What can we suffer worse ? Is this then worst, 
Thus sitting, thus consulting, thus in arms ? 
What, when we fled amain, pursu'd and struck 
With HeavVs afflicting thunder, and besought 
The deep to shelter us ? this Hell then seem'd 
A refuge from these wounds : or when we lay 
Chain'd on the burning lake ? that sure was worse. 
What if the breath, that kindled those grim fires, 



ON TERROR. 117 

Awak'd, should blow them into sevenfold rage, 
And plunge us in the flame ? or, from above, 
Should intermitted vengeance arm again 
His red right hand to plague us ? what if all 
Her stores were open'd, and this firmament 
Of Hell should spout her cataracts of fire, 
Impendent horrors, threatening hideous fall 
One day upon our heads ; vvhile we perhaps 
Designing or exhorting glorious war, 
Caught in a fiery tempest shall be hurl'd 
Each on his rock transfiVd, the sport and prey 
Of wracking whirlwinds ; or for ever sunk 
Under yon boiling ocean, wrapp'd in chains, 
There to converse with everlasting groans, 
Unrespited, unpitied, unrepriev'd, 
Ages of hopeless end ?* 

There is still another principle, which, in 
works at least of any considerable length, 
ought not to be forgot by an author, who 
would render terror a source of pleasure : It 
is, that he should relieve us seasonably fron* 
the violence of this emotion by directing our 
attention to soothing objects.- Thus Sir Joshua 
Reynolds has observed, that in a painting 
which represents any dreadful scene, there 
ought to be some beautiful object, on which 

* Paradise Lost, book II. 



IIS ESSAY IV. 

the eye can rest with pleasure, to relieve the 
spectator from his distress when it becomes too 
powerful. And here it is to be remarked, 
that the emotion may by this means be both 
heightened and prolonged. For after we are a 
little relieved, we can bear to return to the 
terrible, which is heightened by contrast with 
the beautiful and soothing: whereas we are 
soon fatigued, and even lose our sensibility, 
when we are presented with nothing but what 
is dreadful and distressing. It was formerly 
not uncommon, to relieve the reader or spec- 
tator from the deepest terror or distress by a 
sudden transition to the most ludicrous repre- 
sentations. This practice, however, has been 
justly condemned, on account of the painful 
distraction which it occasions. It is only by 
degrees, that we should make so vast a transi- 
tion 3 and the objects, which first relieve us from 
the violence of terror, cannot be too serious, 
provided they are soothing at the same time. 

In the fourth book of the iEneid, we have 
an exquisite instance of the address, which is 



ON TERROR. 119 

now recommended. After describing the misery 
of Dido at the approaching departure of iEneas, 
the awful dreams and prodigies that haunted 
her, the deliberate resolution of self-murder, 
and the pretended magical rites to deceive her 
sister; after all these horrors, the poet soothes 
his reader with the following beautiful descrip- 
tion of the repose of night. 



Nox erat, et placidum carpebant fessa soporem 
Corpora per terras ; silvaeque et saeva quierant 
iEquora : quum medio volvuntur sidera lapsu, 
Q,uum tacet omnis ager, pecudes, pictaeque volucr&s, 
Quaeque lacus late liquidos, quaeque aspera dumis 
Rura tenent, somno positae sub nocte silenti, 
Lenibant curas, et corda oblita laborum. 
At non infelix animi Phcenissa, neque unquam 
Solvitur in somnos. 



'Twas dead of night, when weary bodies close 

Their eyes in balmy sleep and soft repose : 

The winds no longer whisper through the woods, 

Nor murmuring tides disturb the gentle floods ; 

The stars in silent order mov'd around, 

And Peace, with downy wings, was brooding on the 

ground ; 
The flocks, and herds, and parti-colour'd fowl, 
Which haunt the woods, or swim the weedy pool, 



120 ESSAY IV. 

Stretch'd on the quiet earth securely lay, 

Forgetting the past labours of the day. 

All else of nature's common gift partake ; 

Unhappy Dido was alone awake. Dryden. 

And thus, after a pleasing relief, we are 
brought again, with renewed sensibility, to the 
agonies of Dido, her despair and death. 



ESSAY V. 



ON PITY. 



That pity should become a source of plea- 
sure in composition, will not appear extra- 
ordinary after the observations which have 
been made concerning terror. We have the 
secret comparison of our own ease and safe- 
ty with the sufferings of others ; we are agi- 
tated with the gentler movements of sorrow 
not our own; our curiosity is interested with 
regard to the fate and the behaviour of our 
fellow- creatures in the unusual circumstances 
of deep distress, which require the utmost 
resources of patience and fortitude -, while the 
charms of composition, and a variety of more 
agreeable thoughts and images, are mingled to 
soften the severer feelings. But, beside these 



122 ESSAY V. 

causes of pleasure, which have been already 
considered in treating of terror, there still 
remain two which are peculiar to pity. 

The chief of them is the extraordinary height 
to which pity raises the tender affections. Our 
attachment even to a stranger in affliction is 
extremely remarkable, although we are per- 
fectly unacquainted with his character. What 
is more ; our heart is softened even to a bad 
man, and to our enemy himself in adversity, 
whatever hatred or indignation we may en- 
tertain for them in other circumstances. We 
need not, therefore, wonder at the extraor- 
dinary height, to which our love is raised by 
the sufferings of an amiable character; and 
that no words can express the fondness, with 
which we cling to our friend in his misery. 
Now of all our emotions, the tender affections 
are productive of the greatest delight, and can 
sweeten even our bitterest tears. 

To this cause of pleasure we have to add 
the agreeable feeling of self-approbation, when 
we find ourselves moved by a virtuous pity> 
and impressed with the belief, that if we had 



ON PITY. 123 

it in our power to relieve the sufferer, our 
exertions would be equal to the warmth of our 
emotion. This feeling may, indeed, be too 
often delusive ; but while it remains, it is highly 
pleasing. 

It may safely be considered as a principle 
in pathetic composition, that the extraordinary 
height to which the tender affections are raised 
forms the great charm of pity. It is true, 
that an author without paying regard to this 
consideration may rack our hearts with the 
exhibition of misery. Our pity will be raised 
to a very high degree by a detail of the cruelties 
of Nero, of the torments inflicted by the 
Spanish adventurers in America, or of the 
atrocious treatment which slaves have endured 
from tyrannical masters : yet it will not be said, 
that such are the subjects best adapted for 
rendering pity a source of pleasure, however 
proper they may be on some occasions, where 
conviction or persuasion is the great design. 

It has often appeared to me a strange idea 
in Sterne, to think of entertaining his readers 
with so minute a description of a wretched 



124 ESSAY V. 

captive in a dungeon. The agitation from the 
view of so forlorn a state is too severe, to be in 
itself agreeable to a feeling heart j our pain is 
relieved only by admiration of the author's 
talents, and by a sort of gratification to cu- 
riosity -, but there is no character, no history, 
nothing but pure wretchedness, to engage us to 
the sufferer; and that wretchedness of too 
dismal a nature to be exhibited by itself, al- 
though it might be endured, if it were to an- 
swer some important purpose, as to enforce a 
useful lesson, or to lead to some agreeable or 
interesting situation. 

LeJ us then keep in view the principle, that 
the great charm of pity is the extraordinary 
height to which it raises the tender affections ; 
and consider more particularly how pathetic 
compositions may be rendered as engaging as 
possible. 

It is evident, that the character of the suf- 
ferer is of great importance. 

We might at first imagine, that, if the ex- 
hibition of any affliction can be agreeable, it is 
only when a bad man suffers the punishment 



ON PITY. 1&5 

he deserves. Yet such a principle would be 
directly in opposition to the practice of the 
most eminent pathetic writers, and to what we 
feel in the perusal of their works. Dr. Moore 
has made the attempt, and with great ability, 
to engage us by an exhibition of the miseries, 
which a very wicked man brought upon himself: 
yet we turn with distaste from the sufferings of 
Zeluco, but follow with unwearied interest the 
sorrows of the angelic Clementina, and even 
the anguish, though it is by far too severe an 
agitation, of the amiable Clarissa. It is true, 
that we do not wish the amiable or the virtuous 
to be afflicted ; but, when they are afflicted, 
we know that their sufferings attach us to them 
with an interest far beyond what their pros- 
perity could have inspired. And, after what 
has been observed concerning the power of 
imagination, we can easily conceive to what 
a height pathetic compositions may raise not 
only our pity for such characters, but also 
the tender affections, which are naturally 
awakened by pity, and constitute its principal 
attraction. 



126 ESSAY V. 

It may perhaps be supposed., that such 
representations must be unfavourable to virtue, 
and subversive of our ideas of the justice and 
goodness of Providence. But it is to be re- 
membered, that, in reality, the worthiest cha- 
racters are subject, as well as the wicked, to 
the calamities of life ; that deep afflictions fall, 
at times, to their lot ; and, on some occasions, 
their virtues themselves are the cause of their 
sufferings. And while these representations 
are extremely engaging, they may at the same 
time be rendered productive of the most salu- 
tary impressions, by pointing out the resources 
of good men in adversity, by warning us of the 
vicissitudes to which we are exposed, and by 
raising our thoughts to a better world. 

I proceed then to observe, that an amiable 
character in the sufferer has the finest effect. 
An amiable character is to be understood as 
opposed not merely to what is wicked and 
hateful, but also to those characters, which 
command our respect or admiration, but do 
not so particularly engage our love. Here a 
double effect is produced. For, in the first 



ON PITY. 127 

place, our pity is raised to the greatest height, 
not only because affection makes us long for 
the happiness of its object, but also because 
it softens the heart, so as to render it pe- 
culiarly susceptible of pity. And, on the other 
hand, the painful feelings are very intimately 
blended with the delights of affection. 

But, although our compassion for Belvidera, 
or Lady Randolph, be far more captivating than 
what is produced by the sufferings of Socrates 
or Cato, yet the exhibition of heroic fortitude 
in the midst of distress is both instructive, 
sublime, and interesting. The thrillings of 
the tender affections are not, indeed, felt in 
the same degree as in the former case ; but on 
the other hand, we have the elevating emo- 
tions of the sublime, to blend with our com- 
miseration and relieve its pain. Yet the in- 
terest will be incomparably greater, if, while 
the heroic virtue of the sufferer commands 
our admiration, he appears under the influence 
of the kind affections, as with the tenderness 
of a friend, a lover, a husband, a son, or a 
father. 



128 ESSAY V. 

Otway, whose powers in the pathetic are 
very uncommon, has miserably neglected the 
effect of character in the case of Jaffier and 
Pierre. The former we despise; the latter we 
detest: and hence we are not only the less 
interested in their fortunes ; but the interest, 
which by the talents of the poet we are forced 
to take, is reluctant and unpleasing. On the 
other hand, the virtuous and amiable Belvidera 
has the full command of our affections and 
pity. 

Homer also, but perhaps designedly, has, 
by neglecting the effect of character, weakened 
not a little the impression, which a poet of far 
lower abilities might have produced, in one 
of the most interesting parts of the Iliad, the 
death of Hector. Although Hector is repre- 
sented in some other parts of the poem, not 
only as the bravest of the Trojans, but also as 
a fond parent, an affectionate husband, and an 
attentive and respectful son; yet at his last 
appearance, when he ought to have been set 
out to the greatest advantage, he sinks far 
below the elevation, which he formerly, though 



ON PITY. 129 

Indeed not every where, maintained. If Homer 
had upon this occasion exerted the pathetic 
powers which he displays in the interview 
with Andromache^ and in Priam's supplication 
to Achilles, how highly might he have raised 
both our admiration and affection for Hector 
by representing his struggles between honour 
and filial love, when his aged parents besought 
him to remain within the walls. But there is 
not a word of this. When Priam entreated 
him in the most affecting manner, and tore 
his gray hairs in agony, we are only told, that 
" he did not persuade Hector. " 

'H q o ytgwv, woXiaq 5'a^ a,vx T£t%aj sAxeTO %£§£>"* 

The same expression is repeated after his 
mother's supplications. 

*n<; ru yi xXctiovre Tr^ocxvlriTYiv (p\\av viov 

It may v be said, perhaps, that this seeming in- 

* II. k 22. v. 77, 
K 



ISO ESSAY V. 

difference to his parents is sufficiently accounted 
for, by what we are told in the very next line, 
that he was waiting for Achilles, with the rage 
of a serpent resolved to defend its covert. 
But it would have given us a higher idea 
of his firmness in danger, as well as of his 
sensibility, if he had endeavoured to comfort 
his parents in their anguish, and reminded 
them how his honour and duty demanded, 
that he should stand forth in the defence of 
his family and country. A long formal speech 
might indeed have been improper ; but a few 
words could have conveyed these sentiments 
both in the most affectionate and forcible 
manner, and interested us far more in his 
fate. 

But the matter does not rest here: for 
we find by Hector's soliloquy, which follows 
immediately, that what engaged his mind and 
prevented him from attending to the entreaties 
of his parents, was a struggle not between 
affection and honour, but between shame and 
fear. , He bewails himself, that he cannot take 



ON PITY. 131 

refuge within the walls, without being re- 
proached for his obstinacy in not listening 
to Polydamas, who had advised him, on the 
appearance of Achilles, to lead the Trojans 
back into the city. He entertains some thoughts 
of laying aside his arms, and meeting his adver- 
sary in a peaceable manner, to propose terms of 
accommodation , and these terms were to be 
abundantly humiliating to the Trojans : not 
only the restoration of Helen with all her 
possessions, but also the half of the whole 
wealth of Troy. But then he suspects, that 
the experiment would be dangerous, as Achilles 
might be ungenerous enough to take advantage 
of his helpless condition, and kill him; for 
he does not think, he says, that his enemy 
would allow the conversation to go on like 
that which passes between a young maid and 
her lover. So that, upon the whole, he con- 
cludes it to be better to take his chance of the 
combat. Now it cannot surely be considered 
as improbable, that Hector, the bulwark of 
Troy, the favourite of his country, and the 
adversary of Achilles, should have possessed on 

K 2 



132 ESSAY V. 

this occasion both greater magnanimity, and a 
greater concern for all that could be sacred or 
dear to him. 

But the worst follows. For, as if the poet 
had been anxious to diminish the sympathy of 
his readers, and even the glory of Achilles, as 
much as possible, Hector is represented as 
unable to bear his approach, seized with a fit 
of trembling, and actually running away under 
the very eyes of his countrymen. He is even 
compared to a timorous dove flying from a 
hawk j and the poet observes, that he might 
well run fast, for he was running not for a 
prize, but for his life. Nor does the Trojan 
hero think of stopping, till Minerva appears in 
the shape of his brother Deiphobus, and pro- 
mises to stand by him, if he would face 
Achilles. 

Whether Hector's flight was a tradition, which 
Homer could neither contradict nor omit, is 
what we pretend not to determine. But it is 
evident, that Achilles would have obtained more 
honour from his victory, if he had contended 
with a more determined adversary; and also, 



ON PITY. 133 

which is what concerns our present purpose, 
our compassion for Hector's untimely fate would 
have been both higher and more engaging, if he 
had appeared more magnanimous and kinder- 
hearted. 

Homer conducts the matter very differently, 
when our attention is to be called to the death 
of Patroclus. Although this hero is represented 
with the most determined courage, yet he is 
not only free from sternness, but has a heart 
overflowing with tenderness for his companions, 
when he saw them reduced to the last extremity 
by the Trojans, who had forced their way 
within the ramparts, and were setting fire to the 
ships. The sixteenth book opens at this junc- 
ture with a scene between Achilles and Patro- 
clus; Patroclus weeping bitterly, and Achilles 
inquiring kindly, though perhaps too playfully, 
into the cause of his tears. 

M*j vt^eaoc' toiov yug «%o? @&(3iY,y.ei> A^ocm?. 
Ot f/,£V yug ay wavT£? 5 baoi ttupo^ ojcav agir°*> 
Ev vr,v<r\v x.zct,Ta,i @z@\r,ptvQi xTxptvoi re. 
B£jSX>5T«» /xev o TvtifiSns /C§aT£gOS A»0/<OJ^>JS e 



134 ESSAY V. 

Hz$'Kr>Tcci $e koci EvgVffvXos Kocroe, (jwgov oi'ra;. 
Ttf? /xevt tvirpoi iroXvQizpfAC&xoi a.(jt,^iinvovrcii 
'EAke oottio^ivoi' crv 5' afjwxcivos Iffhsv, Ap^tXAgy. 
Mv) l^e yav «to? ys Xa|3oi %oAo$, oi> cry ^>vAairo-£K, 
'Ah^etj). Tnj <rsv a,KXo<; owiatTcti o-i^iyovoq vsq, 
'Atzs (Jt,y 'A^ysioiaiv asixsot, "Koiyov u[Avvy<; ; 
N^Aes?, a* a^a croi ye itocrvi^ yv infcora, IIjjXeu?, 
'Oy^£.0eTi? /xjjt^' 7^afH)» ^e ere rum SaAatrov* 
IlETgat t' ^At/3aT0J, ot» toi vooj ej-u' «7r>ji»)3?. 

Kat ti>* rot ir<x.g Zvjvo<; eireipga.tls irorvitx, fwrvig. 
'AM' I/xs we§ wpogj wp/, u[jl<x, $' ocKKov Aaos> owouro-ov 
MvgpiSovav, t)v ira m (pouq Axvcuho-i ysvvpau.* 

A sigh that instant from his bosom broke, 
Another followed, and Patroclus spoke : 

Let Greece at length with pity touch thy breast, 
Thyself a Greek, and once of Greeks the best ! 
Lo ! ev'ry chief, that might her fate prevent, 
Lies piere'd with wounds and bleeding in his tent. 
Eyrypylus, Tydides, Atreus' son 
And wise Ulysses, at the navy groan, 
More for their country's wounds than for their own. 
Their pain soft arts of pharmacy can ease, 
Thy breast alone no lenitives appease. 
May never rage like thine my soul enslave, 
O great in vain, unprofitably brave ! 
Thy country slighted in her last distress, 
What friend, what man, from thee shall hope redress ? 

* II. 1. 16. v. 20. 



! 



ON PITY. 135 

No ; — men unborn, and ages yet behind, 
Shall curse that fierce, that unforgiving mind. 
******* *** 

If some dire oracle thy breast alarm, 

If aught from Jove, or Thetis, stop thy arm, 

Some beam of comfort yet on Greece may shine, 

If I but lead the Myrmidonian line. Pope. 

We cannot but be particularly interested for 
him, who thus ventured to upbraid Achilles 
for his unrelenting spirit ; and, while he might 
have remained in safety with his dearest friend, 
yet, with not less kindness than resolution, 
insisted upon sharing the fate of his compa- 
nions. But the well known episode of Nisus 
and Euryalus, in the ninth book of the iEneid, 
is one of the finest examples to show, how cap- 
tivating is our pity for the sorrows of those, 
who unite the tender affections with heroic 
valour. 

It is not meant, that the sufferings of bad 
men ought never to be represented in compo- 
sitions, whose great object is to please. .For 
these sufferings may not only enforce some 
useful lesson, but also form a necessary part of 



136 ESSAY V. 

a story. Besides, the indignation raised by 
the view of wicked characters, although it 
ought not to be the prevailing emotion in 
such compositions, may yet have an excel- 
lent effect, like discords in music, both to 
diversify the composition, to rouse the atten- 
tion, and to increase, by contrast, the in- 
fluence of gentler and more engaging passions. 
As the sufferings of bad men, however, cannot 
produce the affectionate interest, which is the 
great charm of pathetic composition, they 
ought to be held up as objects of terror rather 
than of sympathy. 

This was evidently Shakspeare's idea in the 
tragedy of Macbeth. Every art is employed^ 
to excite our horror -> but we are little disposed 
to weep, either for the usurper or his wife, till 
at last our hearts begin to be softened in her 
favour, when we find that sleep itself, the re- 
fuge of the wretched, only serves to aggravate 
her misery. 

The observation, however, is applicable chiefly 
to those characters that are hardened in guilt^ 



ON PITY. 137 

and have no respectable or amiable quality suf- 
ficiently conspicuous to create an interest. But 
when we see a guilty person subdued to peni- 
tence, broken down by misery, yet displaying 
in his last extremity uncommon elevation of 
mind or tenderness of affection, it is not easy 
to withhold either our pity or attachment. It 
is in this manner, that Virgil, with great ad- 
dress, has interested us in the fate of Me- 
zentius. Yet he had represented that tyrant 
in the most odious light, as both impious 
and cruel in the highest degree. But when 
he is weeping over the dead body of Lausus, 
our hearts are softened by his extreme affection, 
his bitter anguish, his remorse for the infamy 
and calamities which he had brought upon 
his son, and his determined resolution, faint 
and bleeding as he was, to return to the field 
of battle, to meet JEneas, and to die ; we lose 
sight of his former guilt; we think only of 
his wretchedness, affection, and fortitude; and 
in his last moments we feel an interest for 
him, whom we abhorred in prosperity. Nor 



138 ESSAY V. 

does the kind, but distracted manner, in which 
he speaks to his horse, the old companion of 
his victories and dangers, and who was now to 
share the fate of his master, contribute little to 
the effect. 

The passage is so beautiful, and illustrates the 
subject so well, that it may be proper to quote 
it. The reader will remember, that Mezentius, 
together with his son Lausus, had fled from his 
subjects, who had threatened the lives of both 
on account of the cruelties of the father : and 
that Mezentius was wounded by ./Eneas in bat- 
tle, but had found means to retire by his son's 
interposition. Lausus, engaging too rashly, was 
slain by iEneas, who orders the body to be car- 
ried with every mark of honour to his father. 

Interea genitor Tiberini ad fluminis undam 
Volnera siccabat lymphis, corpusque levabat 
Arboris acclinis trunco. Procul aerea ramis 
Dependet galea, et prato gravia arma quiescunt. 
Stant lecti circum juvenes: ipse aeger, anhelans, 
Colla fovet, fusus propexam in pectore barbam : 
Multa super Lauso rogital, multosque remittit 
Qui revocent, moestique ferant man data parentis. 
At Lausum socii exanimem super arma ferebant 



ON PITY. 139 

Flentes, ingentem atque ingenti volnere victum. 
Agnovit longe gemitum praesaga mali mens. 
Canitiem multo deformat pulvere, et ambas 
Ad coelum tendit palmas, et corpore inhaeret : 
Tantane me tenuit vivendi, nate, voluptas, 
Ut pro me hostili paterer succedere dextrae 
Quern genui ? Tuane hasc genitor per volnera servor, 
Morte tua vivens ? Heu ! nunc misero mihi demum 
Exilium infelix, nunc alte volnus adactum. 
Idem ego, nate, tuum maculavi crimine nomen, 
Pulsus ob invidiam solio, sceptrisque paternis. 
Debueram patriae poenas odiisque meorum : 
Omnis per mortes animam sontem ipse dedissem. 
Nunc vivo ; neque adhuc homines lucemque relinquo. 
Sed linquam. Simul, hoc dicens, adtollit in aegrum 
Se femur ; et quanquam vis alto volnere tardat, 
Haud dejectus, equum duci jubet. Hoc decus illi, 
Hoc solamen erat : bellis hoc victor abibat 
Omnibus. Adloquitur mcerentem, et talibus infit : 

Rhcebe, diu (res siqua diu mortalibus ulla est) 
Viximus. Aut hodie victor spolia ilia cruenta, 
Et caput iEneae, referes; Lausique dolorum 
Ultor eris mecum : aut, aperit si nulla viam vis, 
Occumbes pariter. Neque enim, fortissime, credo 
Jussa aliena pati, et dominos dignabere Teucros. 

Dixit ; et exceptus tergo consueta locavit 
Membra, manusque ambas jaculis oneravit acutis, 
iEre caput fulgens, cristaque hirsutus equina. 
Sic cursum in medios rapidus dedit. iEstuat ingens 
Imo in corde pudor mixtoque insania luctu.* 

* ^n. 1. 10, v. 833. 



140 ESSAY V. 

Mean-time his father, now no father, stood 
And wash'd his wounds by Tiber's yellow flood, 
Oppress'd with anguish, panting, and o'erspent, 
His fainting limbs against an oak he leant ; 
A bough his brazen helmet did sustain ; 
His heavier arms lay scatter'd on the plain; 
A chosen train of youth around him stand ; 
His drooping head was rested on his hand ; 
His grisly beard his pensive bosom sought ; 
And all on Lausus ran his restless thought. 
Careful, concern'd his danger to prevent, 
He much inquired, and many a message sent 
To warn him from the field : alas ! in vain ; 
Behold his mournful followers bear him slain : 
O'er his broad shield still gush'd the yawning wound, 
And drew" a bloody trail along the ground. ' 
Far off he heard their cries ; far off divin'd 
The dire event with a foreboding mind. 
With dust he sprinkled first his hoary head, 
Then both his lifted hands to Heav'n he spread ; 
Last the dear corpse embracing, thus he said : 
What joys, alas ! could this frail being give, 
That I have been so covetous to live ? 
To see my son, and such a son, resign 
His life a ransom for preserving mine ? 
And am I then preserv'd, and art thou lost ? 
How much too dear has that redemption cost ! 
*Tis now my bitter banishment I feel ; 
This is a wound too deep for time to heal. 
My guilt thy growing virtues did defame, 
My blackness blotted thy unblemish'd name. 
Chas'd from a throne, abandoned and exil'd 
For foul misdeeds, were punishments too mild. 



} 



ON PITY, 141 

I ow'd my people these, and from their hate, 

With less resentment could have borne my fate. 

" 'Twas I that sinn'd, 'twas I that should have died 

" A thousand deaths; not thou, my hope ! my pride !"* 

And yet I live, and yet sustain the sight 

Of hated men, and of more hated light ; 

But will not long. With that he rais'd from ground 

His fainting limbs, that stagger'd with his wound ; 

Yet, with a mind resolv'd and unappall'd 

With pains or perils, for his courser call'd, 

Well mouth'd, well manag'd, whom himself did dress \ 

With daily care, and mounted with success, v 

His aid in arms, his ornament in peace. J 

Soothing his courage with a gentle stroke, 

The steed seem'd sensible, while thus he spoke : 

O Rhcebus ! we have liv'd too long for me, 
If life and long were terms that could agree : 
This day, thou either shalt bring back the head 
And bloody trophies of the Trojan dead ; 
This day, thou either shalt revenge my woe 
For murder'd Lausus on his cruel foe ; 
Or, if inexorable fate deny 
Our conquest, with thy conquer'd master die ; 
For after such a lord, I rest secure 
Thou wilt no foreign reins, or Trojan load endure. 

He said : and straight the officious courser kneels 
To take his wonted weight : his hand he fills 

* I have ventured to insert these two lines, on account of 
the verse, 

Omnis per mortes animam sontem ipse dedissem, 

which Dryden seems to have overlooked. 



142 ESSAY V. 

With pointed javelins : on his head he lac'd 
His glittering helm, which terribly was grac'd 
With waving horse-hair nodding from afar : 
Then spurred his thundering steed amidst the wax. 
Love, anguish, wrath, and grief to madness wrought, 
Despair, and secret shame, and conscious thought 
Of inborn worth his labouring soul oppressed, 
Roll'd in his eyes, and rag'd within his breast. 

Dryden, 



But, although in this passage a great effect is 
produced by the poet's address in presenting 
only what was favourable in the conduct or 
feelings of Mezentius, yet our interest would 
have been far higher, if his former crimes had 
not been so atrocious, and so inconsistent with 
a worthy or amiable character. 

It is proper, however, to distinguish between 
a person essentially and habitually depraved, 
and one, who has been led to the commission of 
a crime by an unfortunate concurrence of cir- 
cumstances, or driven to it by the phrensy of a 
moment. A good man may fall into a situ- 
ation of this kind ; and the representation may 
be rendered both pathetic and interesting, and 
instructive also, in a very high degree. But 



ON PITY. 143 

this matter belongs to that part of our inquiry, 
to which we now proceed ; namely, what are 
the distressful situations most proper for com- 
positions, whose object is to please. 

Here the first place will be given to those 
sufferings which arise from the tender affec- 
tions 5 as, when two lovers are torn asunder by 
death, or by disaster $ or, when a parent be- 
wails the loss or the calamity of his child. We 
not only love the sufferer for his kindness, but 
his kindness itself is communicated to us by 
sympathy ; and we also feel the cordial affec- 
tion, which may be supposed to animate the 
object of his kindness. Here, then, is the di- 
rectest road to our hearts ; and such are the 
most engaging forms of pity. 

This is beautifully exemplified by Virgil, 
when Nisus offers himself in vain as a ransom 
for his friend, and expires on the dead body of 
him, whom he could not save : 

Turn super exanimem sese projecit amicum 
Confossus, placidaque ibi demum morte quievit,* 

* iEneid, I. 9. v. 444. 



144 ESSAY V. 

Consider also how we are captivated by the 
hapless story of Sigismunda, who fell a victim 
to the innocent and virtuous love, which had so 
lately before been the charm of her life. Our 
pain is relieved by the affection which soothed 
her own breast, when she says to her lover as 
she was expiring, 

It sheds a sweetness through my fate 
That I am thine again, and without blame 
May in my Tancred's arms resign my soul. 

And with how tender an interest do we attach 
ourselves to Lady Randolph, when she thus 
gives way to the inconsolable anguish, which 
arose from conjugal and maternal affection : 

My son, my son, 
My beautiful, my brave ! how proud was I 
Of thee and of thy valour ! my fond heart 
O'erflow'd this day with transport, when I thought 
Of growing old amidst a race of thine, 
Who might make up to me their father's childhood, 
And bear my brother's and my husband's name. 
Now all my hopes are dead. A little while 
Was I a wife ; a mother not so long ; 
'What am I now? 

In the distresses which we are at present 



ON PIT?. 145 

considering, it is peculiarly interesting, when 
the suffering arises from the struggle of the ten- 
der affections with duty and honour, Under 
this description, however, we are far from com- 
prehending the extravagant and brutal actions, 
where these most amiable and best feelings 
of our nature are outraged without necessity. 
Such was the conduct of the elder Brutus, who 
with officious barbarity thought proper, not only 
to condemn personally his own sons to death, 
but also to witness their execution. The case 
is still worse, when guilt is added to brutality, 
even although these unhallowed means should 
be presumptuously employed in the speculation 
of public good. Such, upon the most favour- 
able supposition, was the conduct of the younger 
Brutus, who with his own hand assassinated 
his friend ; the friend, toa, with whom he lived 
to the last in habits of familiarity. Although 
Voltaire has composed tragedies on the twa 
subjects, which we have mentioned, yet it must 
be acknowledged, that the attempt to excite 
our pity and attachment to characters like 
these is in very bad taste, as well as highly 

L 



146 ESSAY V. 

improper in other respects. In fact, such 
characters must either possess the tender affec- 
tions in a very low degree ; or else, their 
affections are subdued by principles, with which 
we cannot sympathize. We naturally shrink 
from the person, who talks of virtue when he 
imbrues his hand in the blood of his child or 
his friend. We naturally abhor the principles, 
more especially if they be arrayed with honour- 
able appellations, which prompt to deliberate 
cruelty and deliberate guilt. At the same 
time, we must pity the innocent and well- 
intentioned, who have been artfully perverted, 
by false principles assuming the venerable 
names of religion, duty, or honour, to violate 
the most sacred affections of our nature. And 
if the false principles themselves are held up 
to our abhorrence, the unhappy situation of 
those, who have been betrayed by them into 
crimes and misery, may form an excellent 
subject for pathetic composition. Voltaire has 
given a specimen, executed with great genius, 
in the tragedy of Mahomet. 

But we are now considering cases of a 



ON PITY. 147 

very different nature; those cases, in which 
some principle of duty or honour requires us, 
not to commit a brutal or criminal action, 
but to forego the delights, which we enjoyed 
or expected from the tender affections ; to 
part with those, whom we loved the most, 
and on whom we leaned as the comfort and 
hope of our lives. Situations of this kind affect 
us the more nearly, because we know they must 
frequently occur in the common course of 
events. In the common course of events many 
a lover, at the call of duty, must bid his mis- 
tress a long, perhaps a last farewel \ many a 
husband and father must abandon the blessings 
of home, and leave a joyless wife to weep, 
perhaps in vain, for his return -, even in the 
profoundest peace, many a mother must give up 
her favourite son to pursue his fortune \vi far 
distant climes, with scarce a hope of ever 
seeing again the pride of her heart. Such si- 
tuations are extremely favourable for pathetic 
composition, since not only the suffering arises 
from the tender affections, but at the same 
time we must admire the character, whose 

L 2 



148 ESSAY V. 

rectitude prevails over all selfish considerations. 
Richardson's novel of Sir Charles Grandison 
affords a fine example in the history of Lady 
Clementina, whom we cannot but love and 
admire, even although we may not feel the 
force of those considerations, which led her 
to resign the lover whom she adored. But 
the case will become still more particularly 
interesting, when it is from a regard to the 
welfare and honour of the person whom he 
loves, that the sufferer resigns his fondest hopes 
of happiness. 

As distress in many cases arises directly 
from the tender affections, so on some occasions 
they lead to calamities, which might have other- 
wise been avoided. Belvidera might have lived 
with her father in affluence; but conjugal 
affection prevailed, and she followed her hus- 
band to misery. < c Canst thou," says Jaffier 
to Belvidera, 

Endure the bitter gripes of poverty ? 

When banish'd by our miseries abroad 

(As suddenly we shall be), to seek out, 

In some far climate where our names are strangers 

For charitable succour, wilt thou then, 



ON PITY. 149 

When in a bed of straw we shrink together, 
And the bleak winds shall whistle round our head, 
Wilt thou then talk thus to me ? Wilt thou then 
Hush my cares thus, and shelter me with love ? 

Belvidera instantly replies, 

O I will love thee, even in madness love thee ! 

Though my distracted senses should forsake me, 

I'd find some interval when my poor heart 

Should swage itself, and be let loose to thine. 

Though the bare earth be all our resting place, 

Its roots our food, some clift our habitation, 

I'll make this arm a pillow for thy head, 

With words of peace will lull thee to thy rest, 

Then praise our God, and watch thee till the morning. 

No view of human life can be more engaging 
than the exhibition of an attachment, which, 
instead of being shaken, is strengthened by 
calamity. Even when it is directed to an 
unworthy object, yet, if the attachment be 
virtuous and honourable, the sincerity and 
constancy, which are displayed in trials so 
severe, will blend both admiration and love 
with our pity. Virgil with great beauty re- 
presents iEneas, though an enemy, extremely 
moved with the affection, which prompted 
Lausus to die for an unworthy father. 



150 ESSAY V. 

Ingemuit miserans graviter, dextramque tetendit, 
Et mentem patriae strinxit pietatis imago.* 

In general, the calamity will be most en- 
gagingly pathetic, when it is occasioned by 
what is amiable in the sufferer. For we can- 
not think of his misery, without recollecting 
how deservedly we love him ; nor can we 
recollect his amiable qualities, without deplor- 
ing their fatal effects. 

It is not however to be inferred, that pathetic 
compositions ought to be confined to those 
sufferings which proceed from the tender 
affections. Our sympathy cannot fail to be 
engaged, wherever, by an unfortunate con- 
currence of circumstances, any other virtuous 
or honourable principle requires a painful sa- 
crifice, or becomes the source of calamity or 
distress, instead of elevation and comfort. 
If virtue and honour rise superior to those 
hard trials, although there should be nothing 
in the character or conduct of the sufferer to 
win our affection, yet respect and admiration 

* iEn.l. 10. v. 823. 



ON PITY. 151 

will interest us in his favour, and pity will pro- 
duce no small attachment to so deserving an 
object. Such representations, however, are 
better adapted for epic poetry, or those com- 
positions, in which the sublime prevails, than 
where the author would subdue us to the ten- 
derness of pity. 

We have already remarked, that in certain 
situations our pity may be engaged even for 
the guilty 3 and here we have an important 
and extensive class of pathetic subjects. 

The most interesting cases are those, in 
which a person of real goodness has unhappily 
been ensnared in guilt. The anguish of shame 
and remorse, with the despair of ever rising 
from his present degradation to the fair fame 
and consideration which he once enjoyed, are 
sufferings so cruel and hopeless, that they entitle 
him, at least, to our pity. In real life, the 
world, and even his friends, may sometimes 
withhold not only their countenance but their 
pity j and this not always from malignity, but 
from prudence, from uncertainty with regard 
both to his former character and future conduct, 



WM§ ESSAY V. 

and also from general considerations of pro- 
priety. Yet even the world will mourn over 
his fall, when they are not doubtful of his real 
goodness-;- his misery, when they are fully 
apprized of it, will not only appease their in- 
dignation, but awaken their sympathy ; they 
will think of the dangers, to which even the 
virtuous are exposed in the present state, 
where the best dispositions may be gradually 
perverted by levity, or seduced by artful vil- 
lany, and where the phrensy of a moment may 
stain indelibly the purest character; and they 
will pray for peace to the afflicted and contrite 
spirit, that judges itself with inflexible severity, 
and longs, by sufferings and by death, to atone 
for its guilt It is evident, that a composition, 
which represents the feelings of an ingenuous 
mind in such unhappy circumstances, may be 
rendered extremely affecting, and instructive 
also. 

Lillo's tragedy of George Barnwell, and 
Moore's tragedy of the Gamester, are both 
composed on subjects of this nature; and, in 
spite of the faults in language and execution, 



ON PITY. 155 

which a good taste will discover, particularly 
in the first work, they have both of them a 
very powerful effect in raising not only our 
abhorrence at guilt, but also our commiseration 
for its wretched victims. In one thing, how- 
ever, Lillo has gone vastly too far : we cannot 
conceive Barnwell to have been so completely 
perverted, that he should entertain the deliberate 
thought of murder; nor indeed is the necessity 
of the murder sufficiently evident. But it is 
perfectly conceivable, that in the perpetration 
of the villanies into which he was driven by 
the fascinations of an artful woman, he might 
unawares be hurried to this desperate crime. 
The story would have been far more probable, 
and its effect, both as a pathetic and moral 
drama, greatly heightened, if he had set out 
with the intention of only robbing his uncle ; 
and then, being suddenly detected by him in 
the fact, the madness of shame and despair 
might have driven him at the instant to do, 
what the least reflection would infallibly have 
prevented. This, in fact, is the distinguishing 
character of the compositions which we are 



154 ESSAY V. 

considering, that the circumstances render it 
conceivable, that a person of good dispositions 
might be ensnared in the guilt. And if the 
anguish of remorse, and the other calamitous 
consequences of his fall are properly repre- 
sented ; then the more that the good qualities 
of the sufferer render him an object of attach- 
ment, not only our pity will be the more en- 
gaged, but also the lessons of prudence and cir- 
cumspection will be the more deeply incul- 
cated, and an abhorrence of vice, and a sense 
of the delight and dignity of innocence, the 
more powerfully awakened. 

We have already observed, that even they, 
whose characters have been essentially de- 
praved, may become, in a considerable degree, 
engaging objects of pity : but it is only when 
they are completely subdued to penitence, and 
broken down by their sufferings, while at the 
same time they display in their last extremity 
an amiable or magnanimous spirit. In other 
circumstances, the author ought to hold up the 
wicked to our indignation, rather than to our 
sympathy. 



ON PITY. 155 

If our pity and attachment may be raised 
to a very high degree for a person of good 
dispositions, who is ruined by real guilt, it will 
be easier to engage us, when his sufferings 
are occasioned by error, by imprudence, or 
by some of those slighter faults to which even 
the best of men are subject at times; and which, 
though they are far from deserving the name of 
crimes, may yet, in certain conjunctures, be 
productive of the most unhappy effects. And 
when the sufferings themselves proceed from 
the tender affections, such cases may raise the 
most violent, as well as interesting, agitations 
of pity. The tragedies of Mahomet, and of 
Tancred and Sigismunda, are admirable ex- 
amples. In the former we see the horrors into 
which false principles may plunge the purest 
hearts. In the latter, the well-intentioned fraud 
of the virtuous Siffredi, and the too hasty re- 
sentment of the innocent Sigismunda, give rise 
to the most cruel and inextricable misery. 

But an author has to consider, not only what 
are the characters and sufferings, which will 
be the most engaging, but also, in what manner 



156 ESSAY- y. 

he may command our compassion most effec- 
tually, as well as most agreeably. 

Now, in order that we may be prepared 
for pathetic impressions, we should not only 
be brought into a serious and even melancholy 
frame, but also interested for the person, who 
is to be the object of our pity. Our attention, 
therefore, ought to be gradually turned from 
gayer scenes, and directed to those things 
which calm the soul, which inspire the graver 
emotions of love, respect, or admiration, and the 
gentler degrees of awe or sorrow. Not that 
gay objects should be excluded, but only, that 
they should not be the principal objects ; that 
they should be admitted only to heighten, by 
contrast, the effect of those, which inspire or 
lead to melancholy. By our being interested 
for the person, I understand not only affection 
and attachment, but likewise curiosity to be in- 
formed of his fortune. 

We have a good example of such a prepara- 
tion in Marmontel's celebrated tale of the Shep- 
herdess of the Alps. It begins in the following ^ 
manner :— 



ON PITY. 157 

'" In the mountains of Savoy, not far from 
" the road between Briancon and Modane 5 
" there is a solitary valley, which inspires the 
" traveller with a pleasing melancholy. Three 
" hills forming an amphitheatre, where a few 
" shepherds' cottages are scattered at a distance 
" from each other, torrents falling from the 
" mountains, tufts of trees planted here and 
" there, pastures always covered with verdure, 
u are the ornaments of this rural scene. 

" The Marchioness of Fonrose was return- 
" ing with her husband from France to Italy ; 
" a wheel of the carriage broke; and, as the 
" day was on the decline, they were obliged to 
" seek in this valley for a shelter, where they 
lc might pass the night. While they were ap- 
" proaching to one of the cottages, they ob- 
" served a flock, which was going the same 
" way, guided by a shepherdess, whose air 
" impressed them with respect and admiration. 
" On coming nearer, they heard a heavenly 
ff voice, awakening the echo with its plaintive 
" and affecting accents. 

" How sweet is the radiance of the setting 



158 ESSAY V. 

" sun ! It is thus, she said, that at the end of 
cc a painful course, the soul, worn out, shall 
" renew her youth in the pure source of im- 
" mortality. But, alas ! how distant is the 
" period, and how slow is life ! In saying 
" these words the shepherdess went on with her 
" head reclined ; and the negligence of her at- 
" titude seemed to add still more grandeur and 
" majesty to her form." 

In this manner the author has not only pre- 
possessed us in her favour, and raised our cu- 
riosity to learn her story, but also brought us 
to that serious and melancholy frame, in which 
we are the most susceptible either of terror or 

pity- 

The effect of contrast deserves the particular 
attention of pathetic writers, as it is in no case 
more remarkable than in subjects of pity. In 
fact, by far the greatest part of human misery 
arises from contrast. It is seldom, that positive 
sufferings are inflicted, and still seldomer, that 
they are very .hard to be endured. In many 
calamities, which wring the heart with severest 
anguish, and afford to the tragic poet the most 



ON PITY. 159 

affecting subjects, the sufferer has not to com- 
plain that he is destitute of blessings. If he 
could only forget what he has been, or might 
have been; if he could only forget what he 
once enjoyed or once aspired to, he would find 
himself in a situation, where he might still have 
all the happiness which this life can afford. 
The hearts of the miserable are broken by the 
cruel contrasts which haunt their imagination, 
and which they are but too much disposed to 
brood over and encourage. This state of mind 
is well expressed by Burns, our poet of nature, 
in his words to the pathetic air of " The Banks 
" of Doom" 

Thou 'It break my heart, thou little bird, 
That warblest from yon blooming thorn ; 
Thou mind *st me of departed joys, 
Departed never to return. 

It is evident, then, how much an author may 
heighten our pity, by availing himself of the 
opportunities which the subject may naturally 
suggest, to represent, in a striking view, not only 
the former happiness, which the sufferer actually 
enjoyed, but also the blessings .to which he was 



160 ESSAY V. 

entitled to aspire, or which have fallen to others, 
whose pretensions were not superior to his own, 
or which but for some cruel event he would now 
be possessing. Thus, in the tragedies of George 
Barnwell and the Gamester, the distress of the 
catastrophe becomes much greater by the view 
of the uncommon happiness which awaited the 
sufferers, but which their own folly had render- 
ed of no avail, except to imbitter still more their 
miserable fate. 

In general, it is to be remarked, that a strug- 
gle of passions is required for raising our pity to 
a high degree. The sufferer himself, when he 
is composed, even though it be in the calm of 
despair, is not conscious of half the pain which 
he endures, when his mind is roused beyond its 
natural feeling by opposite passions contending 
for the direction of his conduct, or by distrac- 
tion between the cruel vicissitudes of hope and 
fear. Accordingly, in these moments, not only 
the distress itself is exhibited in its highest de- 
gree, but also the agitation produced in the 
reader or spectator awakens him to peculiar 
sensibility. Lady Randolph's calm account of 



ON PITY. 161 

her calamitous story makes but a slight im- 
pression, compared with the sympathy, to 
which we are subdued by the struggle of pas- 
sions in her interview with Norval. We may 
also remark, that situations, in which struggles 
of this kind do not take place, can have but 
little to keep alive the interest or attention of 
the reader. 

We all along suppose the greatest care to be 
taken, that, as far as possible, every thing in the 
behaviour of the sufferer, in his appearance, 
and in his external situation, may contribute to 
our attachment. This precaution, however, 
important as it is for the effect of pathetic com- 
positions, has not always been observed even 
by authors of the highest talents. Thus, while 
we are extremely affected by the serenity with 
which Belvidera beholds the prospect of poverty, 
and assures her husband of her unalterable love, 
and the cheerfulness with which she will labour 
for their support ; we at the same time lose all 
our attachment and sympathy for Jaffier, when 
he bemoans himself so lamentably for the loss 
of his former luxuries^ 

M 



162 ESSAY V. 

Tell me why, good Heaven, 
Thou mad'st me what I am, with all the spirit, 
Aspiring thoughts and elegant desires, 
That fill the happiest man ? Ah ! rather why 
Didst thou not form me sordid as my fate, 
Base-minded, dull, and fit to carry burdens ? 
Why have I sense to know the curse that *s on me ? 
Is this just dealing, Nature ? 

We should have felt for him incomparably 
more, if, instead of this unmanly fretfulness, 
and frightening his wife with the prospect of 
lying in a bed of straw, he had endeavoured Jo 
support her by the cheerfulness, with which he 
resigned himself to his condition, and by repre- 
senting the comforts, which his labours might 
still procure to them in humble retirement ^ 
where, however dreary it might at first appear, . 
compared to their former splendour, yet habit, 
industry, and mutual love, would gradually 
restore tranquillity and pleasure. 

But, although the sufferer's behaviour, in so 
far as it indicates his character, is not always 
represented of the most engaging kind, yet pa- 
thetic writers have in general been aware, how 
much a fine appearance gains upon the heart. 
In tragedies, and fictitious stories of distress, 



ON PITY. 163 

the persons, for whom we are to be deeply in- 
terested, are for the most part distinguished, 
according to their age or station, by a beautiful 
and elegant, or grand or venerable presence. 
Historians themselves, in relating the calami- 
ties or death of any celebrated character, dwell 
with some minuteness on whatever has been re- 
corded as most engaging in his appearance and 
demeanour. In this manner our greatest histo- 
rians, Hume and Robertson, heighten our in- 
terest in the fate of Mary queen of Scotland, 
and of Charles the First. 

But here a case frequently occurs, which re- 
quires particular address ; I mean, when it is 
necessary to represent the diseases, the wounds, 
or the dying moments of the persons, for whom 
we are chiefly interested. Writers in ruder 
ages, or of inferior judgment, are apt to fall 
into the most shocking details, without consi- 
dering, that bodily suffering is the form of dis- 
tress, which is the least engaging, and with 
which we sympathize the least ; that its acute- 
ness does not depend on the disgusting circum- 
stances } and that disgust is very unfavourable 

M 2 



164 ESSAY T. 

both to affection and to pity. But writers of a 
better taste and finer genius feel, that this is the 
time for such beautiful allusions, as will not 
only turn away our attention from any thing 
that is unseemly, but also bring forward to view 
whatever is most affecting, and render it still 
more attractive. We hare a good example in 
Virgil's description of the death of Euryalus. 

Euryalus falls, says the poet ; the blood flows 
ever his beautiful limbs, and his bending neck 
reclines on his shoulder : as when a purple flow^ 
er, whose stalk is cut by the plough, languishes 
and dies; or the poppies, loaded with rain, 
droop their weary head. 

Volvitur Euryalus letcx, pulchrosque per artus 
It cruor, inque humeros cervix collapsa recumbit, 
Purpureas veluti cum flos, succisus aratro, 
Languescit moriens, lassove papavera collo 
Bemisere caput, pluvia cum forte gravantur. 

jEn. 1. 9. v. 433. 

There are indeed situations, the distress of 
which cannot be fully represented without dwell- 
ing on unseemly and disgusting circumstances. 
Such are extreme poverty, and many cases of 
disease, imprisonment/ and disgrace. But it 



ON PITY. 165 

may be possible, to represent the sufferer as so 
respectable or amiable in his character and ap- 
pearance, that these circumstances shall have 
their unfavourable effect in a great measure 
counteracted, and only serve to remind us, by 
an affecting contrast, how very different his con- 
dition ought to have been. Where this cannot 
be accomplished, the subject is thus far unfifc 
for pathetic compositions of amusement, how- 
ever proper to be recorded in authentic history, 
or in works, which aim chiefly at instruction 
or persuasion. 

Upon this principle we must condemn the 
subject of Otway's tragedy, the Orphan, how- 
ever we may admire the talents of the author. 
Completely innocent as Monimia certainly is of 
any crime whatever, yet she falls into a situa- 
tion, which renders her an abhorrence to herself. 
And, although she would, in real life, be for 
this reason the more justly entitled to the 
compassionate and affectionate attention of her 
friends, yet her story is on this very account a 
less engaging subject for tragedy, as it asso- 
ciates, with the recollection of her very charms 



166 ESSAY V. 

and virtues, ideas of the most unpleasing kind, 
and by no means favourable to attachment ; in- 
somuch, that, even in real life, poor Monimia 
would be deserted, not only by the world, but 
also by the greater part of her friends them- 
selves. 

Although, however, it may be extremely dif- 
ficult to command our attachment to a hero or 
heroine, who is placed in circumstances so very 
unseemly, or who is hooted and laughed at, or 
who appears in filth and rags ; yet a writer of 
reflection will understand that in the situation of 
a person, who falls from affluence and honour 
into poverty or disgrace, there may be many 
circumstances of a very different kind, circum- 
stances of extreme affliction, but which are far 
from diminishing our affection or respect. 

But let the object of our pity be ever so en- 
gaging, yet, as pity is a painful emotion, we 
must remark here, as in the case of terror, that 
an author should not endeavour to prolong it 
without interruption in its higher degrees : for, 
either our state of mind will become too dis- 
tressing, or the attempt will be abortive from 



ON PITY. 167 

the languor and insensibility, which are the 
consequence of violent agitation. We should 
be relieved, however, not by objects of drollery, 
which are unfavourable to the repetition of the 
pathetic ; but by amiable views of human life, 
by the display of the tender affections, which 
will not only sooth our distress, but likewise 
soften our hearts, and render us easily subdued 
when the violence of sorrow returns. What is 
sublime or beautiful in external objects may also 
be employed with the best effect. From the 
dismay and anguish of our fellow-creatures we 
gladly pass to those views of inanimate nature, 
which sooth to complacency, or inspire a gen- 
tler melancholy : and such representations, on 
the other hand, form an excellent preparation, 
and an excellent scenery, for whatever is most 
violent in the pathetic. 

The pain of pity will be greatly relieved, also, 
when the termination is happy for the virtuous. 
But this poetical justice, to use the technical 
term, although it seems agreeable to the general 
feelings of mankind, has not received the ap- 
probation of most of the critics. It is supposed, 



168 ESSAY V. 

that we are apt to be indifferent to those cala- 
mities, which we know beforehand are only 
conducting to prosperity ; whereas the anticipa- 
tion of a fatal catastrophe not only increases 
our attachment and sympathy for the sufferer 
in his afflictions, but even wrings our hearts 
with pity at his hopes and joys. These obser- 
vations are abundantly illustrated by the tra- 
gedy of Douglas. 

On the other hand, there are certain consi- 
derations, which may deserve attention, in fa- 
vour of poetical justice. In the first place, it 
does not appear from experience, that we are 
slightly affected with the representation of cala- 
mities, when we know that they are to end in 
prosperity. The tragedies of Iphigenia and of 
the Mourning Bride are highly pathetic in spite 
of this circumstance, and although they are not 
executed with masterly skill. We sympathize 
with the distressful scenes of many novels, as 
Marianne, Tom Jones, the Vicar of Wakefield, 
the Romance of the Forest, Cecilia, and various 
others, even after we are well acquainted with 
their happy termination. Nor will this fact 



ON PITY. 169 

appear extraordinary, if we consider what has 
been said of the power of imagination in raising 
our emotions. It cannot be supposed, that our 
pity will be checked more by the anticipation 
of a favourable result, than by our knowledge 
of the falsehood of the calamities which we 
bewail : yet we have seen, that our pity may be 
raised in certain circumstances to a higher de- 
gree by the representation of fictitious, than by 
the view of real sufferings. 

In the next place, the works, which we are 
now considering, ought to be pleasing, as well 
as pathetic. Now, we are left in a gloomy and 
uncomfortable state, when we see the innocent 
and virtuous perish in misery; whereas their 
final deliverance sooths our pain, without de- 
stroying our sympathy, during the course of the 
eventful story ; removes the dejection, which a 
melancholy catastrophe is apt to leave behind 
it, and even lightens the heart, which is bur- 
dened with its own sorrows. 

There can be no doubt, however, that there 
are pathetic works of the highest merit, and 
extremely popular, in which the event is fatal 



170 ESSAY V. 

to the virtuous. But if the author either 
prefers, or is forced by his subject to a ca- 
tastrophe of this kind, he ought to relieve our 
despondence by the prospect of that better 
world, where all the disorders of the present 
shall be finally rectified, and where they, 
who are the most virtuous, shall be the most 
honoured and happy, far beyond the reach of 
the malignity of man, or the inconstancy of 
fortune. 

The observations which have been made 
in favour of poetical justice, are not applicable 
to those cases, in which the calamities are 
occasioned by the faults of the sufferer. Here 
the melancholy catastrophe may be required, 
to convert our indignation into pity and attach- 
ment, and also to leave on our minds the proper 
moral impression. For an author should re- 
member, that, when he awakens the most seri- 
ous and interesting emotions of the human 
heart, he is bound to engage them in the cause 
of virtue -> and that we shall even receive less 
pleasure from a work of this nature, if it affords 
only a barren amusement. 



ON PITY. 171 

It is indeed to be feared, that the employ- 
ment of much time in the perusal of pathetic 
compositions, may, in certain respects, be hurt- 
ful to the character. For this frequent, but in- 
dolent repetition of the sensations of pity in 
so high a degree, may impair greatly our na- 
tural sensibility, while at the same time there is 
no call on our exertions for the relief of the suf- 
ferer, to confirm the habit of active benevolence. 
And farther; the elegant and engaging repre- 
sentations, to which our imagination is thus 
accustomed, may create an inattention and 
aversion to the more homely scenes of real 
calamity. Mr. Stewart is, I believe, the first 
author who has stated these important observa- 
tions, which he has illustrated with great abi- 
lity and eloquence, in his Elements of the Phi- 
losophy of the Human Mind. 

But while we allow, that bad effects may 
result from the too constant perusal and absurd 
application of such compositions, yet it cannot 
be denied, that pathetic writers have a fa- 
vourable opportunity of making impressions 
highly advantageous to the character. Of 



. 1.72 ESSAY V. 

these the following are the principal: to 
warn us of the miseries produced by un- 
governed passions, even when the passions 
themselves, as love or ambition, indicate vir- 
tuous dispositions; and even when their very- 
excess engages, in no small degree, our attach- 
ment or respect : to warn us of the calamities, 
and even crimes, in which we may be in- 
volved by imprudence, levity, or the slighter 
deviations from rectitude : to prepare us for 
the evils of life, which often rise from un- 
avoidable causes, and often from the faults 
of others, as well as oar own : to raise our 
thoughts to a better world: to cherish hu- 
manity, by directing our attention to the 
sufferings of our fellow-creatures ; and thus, 
also, to promote our thankfulness under the 
blessings, and our patience and contentment 
under the hardships of our own situation. 
But it is to be observed, that in the com- 
positions, which we are now considering, these 
important lessons are to be enforced, not 
by moral discussions, but by the display of 
characters, and the incidents of the story : in a 



ON PITY. 173 

word, by example, which teaches more power- 
fully, as well as more agreeably, than precept. 
And such is the respect for virtue in every hu- 
man heart, that the useful tendency of a pathe- 
tic work will add a new attraction to its other 
charms. 



ESSAY VL 



ON MELANCHOLY. 



XhERE is a wonderful propensity in the 
human mind, to seek for pleasure among the 
sources of pain. We have a delight in the 
compositions, which agitate with terror, and 
fondly return to the tale of sorrow. Nor 
are we attracted merely by sympathy with 
the fears or calamities of others : what is 
more remarkable, we are pleased with the 
passages, which raise our melancholy on our 
own account. 

Of this kind are all those passages (and 
there are none more popular), which give 
striking descriptions of the evils of life, of 
those evils, to which we find ourselves every 



ON MELANCHOLY. 175 

moment exposed. For let us attend to what 
we feel in reading, for instance, the following 
stanzas from Gray's Ode on Spring 5 in the 
first of which 5 indeed, a gay picture is exhibited, 
but only to be contrasted with the shortness , 
and vanity of life : — 

Still is the toiling hand of Care ; 

The panting herds repose. 

Yet, hark] how through the peopled air 

The busy murmur glows. 

The insect youth are on the wing, 

Eager to taste the honied spring, 

And float amid the liquid noon. 
Some lightly o'er the current skim, 
Some show their gaily gilded trim 

Quick-glancing to the sun. 

To Contemplation's sober eye 

Such is the lot of man ; 

And they that creep, and they that fly, 

Shall end where they began. 

Alike the busy and the gay 

But flutter through life's idle day 

In fortune's varying colours drest ; 
Brush'd by the hand of rough mischance, 
Or chill'd by age, their airy dance 

They leave, in dust to rest. 

Here we feel not so much for others, as for 
ourselves : for zve belong Ao the short-lived 



176 ESSAY VI. 

race, who, after a fleeting season of vain pur- 
suits, shall be as if we had never been. 

So, likewise, the following lines from Gray's 
Elegy remind us of a calamity, which every 
one knows, that he cannot long escape :— 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of powV, 
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, 

Await alike th* inevitable hour : 
The path of glory leads but to the grave. 

Yet melancholy as the subject is, and forced 

as we are to apply it directly to ourselves, this 

is one of the stanzas, which we read with 

the greatest pleasure, 

Horace also frequently reminds us, how soon 

the joys of life pass away, and how soon we 

must part with every object of attachment $ 

yet these are some of the verses, which we 

are aptest to commit to memory, and fondest 

of repeating. Such are the following stanzas 

In the ode to Postumus.* 

Eheu ! fugaces, Postume, Postume, 
Labuntur anni ; nee pietas moram 
Bugis et instanti senectae 
Afferet, indomitaeque morti. 

* Lib. 2. Ode 14. 



ON MELANCHOLY. 177 

Linquenda tellus, et domus, et placens 
Uxor ; neque harum quas colis arborum 
Te, prseter invisas cupressos, 
Ulla brevem dominum sequetur. 



We have farther to observe, that frequently 
the feelings, which are excited in us by the ca- 
lamities of others, are not entirely those of pity 
for the sufferers. We are alarmed and afflicted 
for ourselves also, exposed as we are, like 
those whom we commiserate, to misfortune, 
while memory is busy in renewing the traces 
of our former sorrows. Thus Homer, with 
his usual knowledge of human nature, re- 
presents the female captives of Achilles joining 
in the lamentations of Briseis for Patroclus ; 
while, in truth, they were bewailing their own 
calamities : — 






And a little after, when Achilles mourned, that 
his father, as well as his friend, was dead or 
on the brink of the grave, and that as he 

N 



178 essay vi: 

himself was never to return to his country, his 
young son would be destitute of a protector ; 
the old men, says the poet, joined their groans 
to his, remembering what each of them had 
left at home : 

e fi? Itpc&ro Jthotiuv* Iwi $e revei%otro yepovnq, 
Mvytrsipevoi toe sKaroi; in (ttyxpoio-iv sAetTrop.* 

It is evident, that the more the calamities, 
which we pity in others, have a tendency to 
renew the memory of our former afflictions, or 
to remind us how much we may have yet to 
suffer, the more will our fears and sorrows be 
directed to ourselves. And hence we consider 
as belonging to our present subject those pas- 
sages, in which our fellow-creatures are repre- 
sented as drawing near to the close of life, or 
mourning the absence or the death of friends, 
or suffering any other evil, which is common 
to all men. 

It appears difficult to account in a satisfac- 
tory manner for the pleasure, which proceeds 
from or accompanies sorrow for ourselves. It 

* Iliad, lib. 19. v. 301 et 338. 



ON MELANCHOLY. 179 

is obvious, however, that our melancholy may 
be mingled and alleviated, not only with the 
charms of composition, but also with the ten- 
der affections. We may also remark, that we 
are attracted in no small degree by curiosity, 
to learn the sentiments, which are entertained 
by others with regard to subjects so extremely 
interesting as the calamities of life, and the 
awful event, by which it is closed for ever. 
But there are likewise other observations, which 
may deserve attention, and which are more 
peculiar to the subject. 

There are few persons, if indeed there be 
any, who are not at times disposed to consider 
human life in a melancholy view. A reverse 
of fortune, the disappointment of a favourite 
hope, the separation from those whom we love, 
or their sufferings, their unworthiness or their 
unkindness - y such calamities will sadden the 
imagination, till it tinges with the darkest 
gloom the whole prospect of life, and its fairest 
objects. " This goodly frame, the earth/' says 
Hamlet, cc seems to me a sterile promontory : 
cc this most excellent canopy, the air, this 

N 2 



180 ESSAY VI. 

" majestical roof fretted with golden fires, 
" appears nothing to me, but a foul and pes- 
" tilent congregation of vapours." cc My joys 
" died with thee, Philander," says Young in 
his affliction : 

thy Tast sigh 
Dissolved the charm ; the disenchanted Earth 
Lost all her lustre. Where her glitt'ring tow'rs, 
Her golden mountains where ? All darkened down 
To naked waste, a dreary vale of tears.* 

Besides, in the happiest condition, which this 
world can afford, we still know the evils to 
which our nature is subject, and the objects of 
desire which we cannot obtain : and thus with- 
out any positive suffering, or even in the high- 
est prosperity, apprehensions and regrets may 
sicken the heart. 

Now in our despondence it is no small 
consolation to find, that we are not without 
companions ; that all men are born, as well as 
ourselves, to suffer; that our fellow-creatures 
feel as we do, and sympathize with our fears 
and sorrows. Hence the melancholy descrip- 

* Night Thoughts. Night first. 



ON MELANCHOLY. 181 

tions of life are seldom so far exaggerated, that 
they will not at times coincide with our views, 
and, while they indulge, will yet sooth our 
trouble. Even when the mind is in a sounder 
state, yet as we cannot but be conscious, that 
our best blessings are transitory and uncertain, 
and our tranquillity exposed to various vexa- 
tions, those melancholy compositions, which are 
not absurdly "exaggerated, may still be engaging 
by the agreeable view of sympathetic feelings. 

Farther : In the recollection of joys, that are 
past, which is the kind of melancholy that we 
are the fondest to indulge, the conception of 
these joys renews in some degree the sensations 
of our happier days, and relieves with its 
brighter colouring the gloom of sorrow. " Ah ! 
" happy hills, ,, said the poet in the fond re- 
membrance of his early years, awakened by 
the prospect of Eton college, 

Ah ! happy hills, ah ! pleasing shade, 

Ah ! fields belov'd in vain, 
Where once my careless childhood stray'd, 

A stranger yet to pain ! 
I feel the gales, that from ye blow, 
A momentary bliss bestow, 



182 ESSAY VI. 

As, waving fresh their gladsome wing, 
My weary soul they seem to sooth, 
And, redolent of joy and youth, 

To breathe a second spring. 

In real life, it is true, our condition may be 
so forlorn, that the contrast with our former 
prosperity will be extremely painful ; and if our 
misfortunes have been occasioned by folly and 
guilt, no state of mind can be more insup- 
portable. Yet if there be no shame, or re- 
morse, or any other positive suffering, it seldom 
happens, even in real life, that we do not love 
to indulge at times the remembrance of joys 
that are past, though we know they are never 
to return. Thus Homer in the Odyssey beau- 
tifully represents Menelaus speaking of the 
fondness, with which he reflected on his com- 
panions, who were lost, though he found the 
affliction too great to dwell on it long. 

Tlecvreti [abv ocivgofAsvos x.cu a-xivuv, 
IIoAAaxt; h (jLsyccpoiffi xaQv) yLtvoq ^£Tego»<rtv 
? AAXote iasv re you (pffivoc regtrofAQLi' aAAoTe o uvrs 
JJxvopdi, eU4"Jg°S ^£ Jtogo? Kgt/££S»o yoxno. 

* Odyss. lib. 4, v. 100. <( Often when I sit in my palace, 
£t tnourning and lamenting them all, sometimes the sorrow 



ON MELANCHOLY. 183 

So likewise the author of the Pleasures of the 
Imagination, in one of his best passages : 

Ask the faithful youth, 
Why the cold urn of her, whom long he lov'd, 
So often fills his arms, so often draws 
His lonely footsteps at the silent hour, 
To pay the mournful tribute of his tears. 
O ! he will tell thee, that the wealth of worlds 
Should ne'er seduce his bosom to forego 
That sacred hour, when, stealing from the noise 
Of care and envy, sweet remembrance sooths, 
With virtue's kindest looks, his aching breast, 
And turns his tears to rapture.* 

It is in this spirit that Shenstone inscribed on 
the urn, which was sacred to Maria's memory : 
" Heu ! quanto minus est cum reliquis versari, 
" quam tui meminisse! ,, — a sentiment, which 
the Duke of Ormond, less elegantly, but not 

" delights my soul ; sometimes again I desist; and am quick- 
" ly satiated with the cruel sorrow." 

In Pope's translation, 

Still in short intervals of pleasing woe, 
Regardful of the friendly dues I owe, 
I to the glorious dead, for ever dear, 
Indulge the tribute of a grateful tear, 

* Book % v. 683. 



IS4 ESSAY VI. 

less affectingly expressed, when he lost the joy 
and pride of his heart ! " I would not give my 
iC dead son for the best living son in Christen- 
'? dom."* 

If then even in real life we often find a 
delight, that sooths our anguish in the recol- 
lection of departed happiness ; we can more 
readily conceive, how the slighter sorrow, which 
is raised by descriptions of the uncertain and 
transitory nature of earthly blessings, may be 
mingled with pleasure, and moderated to an 
agreeable agitation. 

But there is another remark, which deserves 
particular attention, although it may at first 
appear somewhat paradoxical : that our life and 
blessings are greatly endeared to us by the 
consideration of their shortness and uncer- 
tainty. 

It will, perhaps, occur as an answer to this 
remark, that the shortness and uncertainty of 
any possession diminish its value, and con- 
sequently will diminish our attachment, or at 

* Hume's History of England. Reign of Charles II. 



ON MELANCHOLY. 185 

least cannot increase it. But the first part 
of this objection is ambiguous, and, which- 
ever way we understand it, the conclusion 
is not implied. For the word value denotes 
either the intrinsic worth of a possession^ or 
the price, which, all circumstances considered, 
you^ ought reasonably to give for it. Now the 
price, which in your particular situation you 
ought to give for it, may be very different from 
its intrinsic worth, and your attachment may be 
far from being regulated by either. You ought 
to give very little for the finest villa in the 
world, if it be situate in a< country, where you 
are every day in danger of being dispossessed 
by violence : at the same time the intrinsic 
worth may be very high ; and your attachment 
may be either less than the intrinsic worth de- 
serves, or it may be so immoderate, that you 
will risk your life, and all that is dear to you, 
rather than forego the possession. 

But for our present subject it requires to be 
more particularly observed, that the shortness 
and uncertainty of the possession, although they 
ought certainly to diminish the price, if you were 



186 ESSAY VI. 

to purchase the villa, yet will not alter the in- 
trinsic worth : on the contrary, if it were actually 
your own, nothing would tend more to direct 
your attention and awaken your sensibility to 
its comforts and beauties, than to reflect, that 
you were soon to enjoy them and to see them no 
more. What we conceive ourselves to possess 
securely we are apt to neglect and undervalue, 
arid long familiarity impairs the sense of enjoy- 
ment. It is their loss, or the fear of their loss, 
which most effectually makes us feel the value 
of our blessings. Hence our heart is warmed 
even to an ordinary acquaintance, whom we 
are leaving for the last time. Hence although 
in general we receive the light of day and 
survey the beauties of nature with great in- 
difference, yet how wistfully should we look to 
the setting sun, or survey the most common 
objects, if our eyes were soon to be closed 
on them for ever ! And every heart conceives 
and sympathizes with the feelings of Antores, 
who, expiring far from Argi his native country, 

Looks up to Heav'n's sweet light, and dying sighs 
For Argi's peaceful plains and cheerful skies. 



ON MELANCHOLY. 187 

coelumque 
Aspicit, et dulces moriens reminiscitur Argos.* 

Thus it appears, that, when life and its blessings 
are represented as transitory and uncertain, 
they are placed in a light, which is gloomy 
indeed, but which renders them peculiarly en- 
gaging. 

Here it may be said, that according to this 
account religious and moral writers are ex- 
tremely imprudent, when they employ this topic 
to moderate our attachment to the present 
world. And I have no hesitation to affirm, that 
he is mistaken, who thinks to diminish our 
opinion of the intrinsic value of our blessings 
merely by representing them as fleeting and 
precarious. Perhaps indeed he may over- 
power us so much with this view of our situa- 
tion, as to render us incapable of enjoyment; 
but the very sorrow, with which he overpowers 
us, affords too sure an evidence, that he has 
strengthened instead of weakened our attach- 
ment. And the topic, when urged by itself 
apart from other considerations, is employed 

* JEneid. lib. 10, v. 782, 



188 ESSAY VI. 

with greater knowledge of the human heart, 
and indeed with greater reason, by them, who 
advise us to 

" Taste life's glad moments while the wasting taper glows 
" And pluck ere it withers the quickly fading rose." 

But I am far from imputing the mistake, 
which we have now supposed, to any of our 
instructors in religion and morality. They urge 
with great propriety the shortness and un- 
certainty of our present life and its blessings, 
as a consideration sufficient in itself, not to 
lower our estimate of their intrinsic value (that 
is to be done by other topics), but to check 
the dangerous exultation and presumption, which 
we are apt to encourage, when we forget the 
tenure, on which we hold our blessings ; and to 
restrain us, even although their intrinsic value 
were far greater than it is, from bestowing an 
unreasonable price, from sacrificing our honour 
and integrity for so transient and precarious a 
possession. And the miserable folly, as well 
as the unworthiness of such a conduct, becomes 
still more glaring, [when religion directs our 



ON MELANCHOLY. 189 

views to the higher and more permanent enjoy- 
ments of a future state. At the same time, 
however poor the blessings of this world may- 
be, when compared with what we are invited 
to look for hereafter ; however foolish it may- 
be to triumph, as if we could ensure their pos- 
session ; and whatever may be the price, which, 
every thing considered, we ought reasonably to 
give for them : still they have a certain intrinsic 
value, sufficient to make their loss very sensibly- 
felt even by the wisest and best of men; a 
value, of which we are not only most sensible, 
but which we are even extremely apt to over- 
rate, when we reflect for how short a time at 
the longest we shall be permitted to enjoy them. 
We survey with renewed admiration the beauties 
of nature, as they seem to be retiring fronj our 
view. We look with redoubled affection on 
our companions, to whom we are soon to bid a 
long farewel. " Prepare the feast," said Lord 
Randolph ; 

" Free is his heart, who for his country fights. 
He on the eve of battle may resign 
Himself to social pleasure, sweetest then* 



190 ESSAY VI. 

When danger to a soldier's soul endears 
The human joy that never may return"* 

The celebrated painter Le Poussin under- 
stood this way of interesting the heart. In a 
picture of Arcadian festivity, he represents a 
tomb with this simple but affecting inscription, 
fit in Arcadia ego ; " I too was an Arcadian." 
The effect of this object, combined with the 
gaiety of the rest of the scene, is beautifully 
described in the following verses from the 
Jardins of de Lille. The poet is advising the 
improvers of ground to enliven their scenes by 
contrast; and says, 

Imitez Le Poussin. Aux fetes bocageres 

H nous peint des bergers et de jeunes bergeres, 

Les bras entrelaces dansant sous ormeaux, 

Et pres d'eux une tombe ou sont ecrits ces mots : 

Et moi, jefus aussi pasteur dans V Arcadie. 

Ce tableau des plaisirs, du neant de la vie, 

Sembledire: " Mortels, hatez vous de jouir; 

e( Jeux, danses et bergers, tout va s'evanouir." 

Et dans Tame attendrie, a la vive alegresse 

Succede par degres une douce tristesse.f 

Upon the whole, the passages, which raise 

* Tragedy of Douglas; Act II, Scene 1. 
f Le* Jardins, ebant 4eme. 



ON MELANCHOLY. 191 

our melancholy on our own account, may yet 
be extremely engaging -, not only by a certain 
gratification of curiosity, by the charms of com- 
position, or by awakening the tender affections; 
but also by the soothing influence of sympa- 
thetic feelings, by renewing the imagination of 
our former joys, and by endearing to us our 
uncertain and transitory blessings. 

But it is moreover to be observed, that sucli 
compositions may be productive of great delight 
as well as utility from various topics both of 
instruction and consolation. The evils of life 
are abundantly obvious, and we are apt on 
every occasion, not only to recall them to our 
remembrance, but to crowd them all into one 
gloomy picture, while we overlook the comforts, 
with which they are mingled, and the happy 
purposes, for which they were ordained. Now 
while the author indulges our propensity to 
melancholy views, he may at the same time 
afford us much permanent pleasure, as well 
as real advantage, by connecting in our imagi- 
nation the evils of life with the most salutary^ 
soothing, and encouraging reflections. 



192 ESSAY VI. 

It will now be more obvious in What manner 
such compositions ought to be conducted. And 
here we may remark in general, that the author 
may either confine himself to remind us of the 
shortness and uncertainty of life and its bless- 
ings : or he may also represent how much we 
have to suffer and how little to enjoy, and alarm 
us with the apprehension of the more dreadful 
calamities, to which we are exposed. 

The first of these topics affords ample oppor- 
tunity to delight the imagination with the most 
engaging objects, and to warm the heart with 
the most interesting affections : and an author 
of taste and genius will be happy to avail 
himself of these means to render more attrac- 
tive the melancholy he inspires. Instead of 
endeavouring to frighten us like children with 
the description of dead bodies and graves, he 
will rather represent our dissolution in a far 
more affecting light, as the event which be- 
reaves us of the objects, to which we have been 
accustomed and attached so long. He will 
describe in glowing colours the beauties of 
nature and the other charms of life; at the 



ON MELANCHOLY. 193 

same time that he is to exhibit them more par- 
ticularly as passing rapidly away from us, and 
ready every moment to vanish from our sight, — 
which is the secret for renewing our attachment 
to our most ordinary blessings. 

Thus Horace in the ode to Torquatus* 
charms our fancy with the picture of Nature's 
revival in the spring, while at the same time he 
is reminding us, that the vicissitudes of the 
year should warn us of our approach to the 
period of life. 

Diffugere nives, redeunt jam gramina campis, 

Arboribusque comas : 
Mutat terra vices, et decrescentia ripas 

Flumina pnetereunt : 
Gratia cum nymphis geminisque sororibus audet 

Ducere nuda choros. 
Immortalia ne speres monet annus, et almum 

Quae rapit hora diem. 
Frigora mitescunt Zephyris, ver proterit aestas 

Interitura, simul 
Pomifer autumnus fruges effuderit, et mox 

Bruma recurrit iners. 
Damna tamen celeres reparant coelestia lunae ; 

Nos, ubi decidimus 

* Lib. 4. Ode 7. 
O 



194 ESSAY VI. 

Quo pius JEneas, quo dives Tullus et Ancus, 

Pulvis et umbra sumus. 
Quis scit an adjiciant hodiernae crastina summse 

Tempora Dt superi ? 

The cheerless glare of snow is past, 

And rising verdure smiles around ; 
The spreading trees rejoice at last 

With foliage crown'd. 

*■ 

Again the Earth renews her youth, 
More sweetly shines the genial sky, 
. And purer streams, whose murmurs sooth ? 
Flow gently by. 

The nymphs and graces o'er the mead 

Can venture now in light attire, 
To join the frolic dance, or lead 
The warbling choir. 

Yet joys immortal are not here ; 

'Tis but the season's transient bloom. 
We too shall fade : the changeful year 
Forebodes our doom. 

Now yields the cold to Zephyr's reign \ 

The lovely spring will also fly, 

And summer burn the russet plain, 

But soon to die, 

When Autumn, to poor mortals kind, 

Strews v/ith his annual fruits the ground ; 
Then dreary Winter close behind 
Completes the round. 



ON MELANCHOLY. 195 

Yet still the circling moons pursue 

The rapid course, which late they ran, 
The youth of nature to renew ; 
But, hapless man ! 

When we shall lie, as soon we must, 

Where all the good and great are laid, 
Our glory turns to mouldering dust 
And empty shade. 

Who knows how soon the gods decree, 

To close the joys that now invite ? 
To-day is ours ; but shall we see 
To-morrow's light ? 

So likewise Dr. Beattie, in his poem entitled 
the Hermit, while he mourns over the vanity of 
human life, amuses our fancy with the most 
beautiful images. 

Now gliding remote on the verge of the sky, 

The moon half extinct her dim crescent displays : 
But lately I mark'd where majestic on high 

She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze- 
Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue 

The path, that conducts thee to splendour again. — 
But man's faded glory no change shall renew; 

Ah, fool ! to. exult in a glory so vain. 

'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more. 

I mourn ; but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you ; 
For morn is approaching your charms to restore, 

Perfum'd with fresh fragrance, and glittering with dew, 

O £ 



196 ESSAY VI. 

Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn ; 

Kind Nature the embryo blossom will save. — 
But when shall Spring visit the mouldering urn ? 

Oh ! when shall it a awn on the night of the grave ? 

But it is more deeply interesting, when our 
tender affections are awakened by the remem- 
brance of the short period, during which we 
have been blest, or can hope to be blest with 
the society of those, whom we love the most. 
The author of the Elegy in the Country Church- 
yard is careful to represent this view of our 
situation, when in meditating upon those, who 
lay at rest around him, he pathetically observes, 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, 
Or busy housewife ply her ev'ning care ; 
No children run to lisp their sire's return, 
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 

It is obvious, then, by what means the pas- 
sages, which dwell on the first of the general 
topics above mentioned, may be rendered both 
beautiful and interesting, although the author 
should not endeavour either to comfort our 
melancholy, or to repay it by instruction. But 
their charms will be greatly enhanced, if instruc- 
tion or consolation are properly administered. 



ON MELANCHOLY. 197 

To enjoy our blessings while we may, is one 
lesson to be derived from the consideration of 
their shortness and uncertainty. Nor let it be 
said that it is a lesson, which we do not require 
to be taught. We are all too much inclined 
to view our situation in the most unfavourable 
light ; to repine for what we want, instead of 
enjoying what we have; and, while we complain, 
that the season of our happiness flies so quickly 
away, to abridge it still more by fruitless an- 
ticipations. The author, therefore, who directs 
our attention to the shortness and uncertainty of 
life and its blessings, does well to rouse us 
from an oppressive and unmanly despondence 
at the melancholy view. And although the 
maxim of enjoying our blessings while we have 
them may be abused by the profligate $ yet 
when confined within the bounds of innocence, 
it is perfectly consistent with religion and virtue, 
and tends greatly to sooth and enliven us, by 
rendering us more sensible of the various plea- 
sures, which are scattered for our comfort in 
this transitory world. Such maxims too are high- 
ly agreeable on this other account, that we love 
the resigned and cheerful temper, which, instead 



198 ESSAY VL 

of sullenly refusing to be comforted, because our 
blessings are not so durable or certain as we 
could wish, is contented and thankful for what 
Providence bestows. 

Horace, in the ode which was just now quot- 
ed, has been thought by some to insinuate this 
advice to Torquatus ; but it must be acknow- 
ledged, that he expresses himself neither with 
perspicuity nor elegance.* In his ode to 
Delliusf he speaks more plainly : 

* The lines to which I allude, are 

Cuncta manus avidas fugient haeredis, amico 
Quae dederis animo. 
According to one interpretation, which has been ascribed to 
Erasmus, the expression amico animo is taken in the dative, 
and the adjective amicus is understood in the sense, in which 
(piXoi; is used by the Greeks in such phrases as (pfoov hro% ; and 
then the passage may be supposed to run thus : Cuncta 
manus avidas fugient haeredis, proprio quae dederis animo 
seu genio ; You only take from your greedy heir the indul- 
gences which you bestow on yourself. I leave to the learned 
reader to determine if this explanation can be admitted; for 
my own scanty knowledge does not bring to my recollection 
any instance, in which amicus can be understood in the sense 
now mentioned. According to the more common and obvi- 
ous interpretation, the words amico animo are considered in 
the ablative, and the poet appears to be recommending 
liberality. 

t Lib. % Ode 3. 



ON MELANCHOLY. 199 

Hue vina et unguenta et nimium breves 
Flores amoenas ferre jube rosae, 
Dum res, et setas, et sororum 
Fila trium patiuntur atra. 

€edes coemtis saltibus et domo, 
Villaque flavus quam Tiberis lavat ; 
Cedes, et extructis in altum 
Divitiis potietur haeres. 

But the prospect of mortality inculcates higher 
lessons, which will prevent the invitation to 
enjoy our blessings from degenerating into 
thoughtless and low-minded profligacy. 

One is, that we ought neither to be much 
dated with the good things, nor much depress- 
ed with the evils of the present world ; a maxim, 
which intimately concerns our virtue, dignity, 
and comfort. We cannot properly call our own, 
what we possess on so short and precarious a 
tenure: nor should our tranquillity be much 
disturbed by calamities, which are only to en- 
dure a few years at the longest. These consi- 
derations serve, on the one hand, to check in 
prosperity our presumptuous hopes, which nou- 
rish insolence, rashness, vice, and discontent; 
and, on the other hand, to confirm in adversity 



200 ESSAY VI. 

that patient and manly spirit, which not only 
lightens our sufferings, but also prompts our 
diligence for the short period in which our 
exertions may yet be required. This appears 
to be the poet's train of thought in the be- 
ginning of the Ode to Dellius, when, by a 
single word, he states the argument from 
our mortality with an elegance and a force, 
which the construction of our language cannot 
attain : 

iEquam memento rebus in arduis 
Servare mentem ; non secus in bonis 

Ab insolenti temperatam 

Laetitia, moriture Delli. 

We have also to learn, from the shortness and 
uncertainty of life and its blessings, that even if 
their intrinsic value were far higher than it is, 
they ought not to be purchased at the expense 
of duty or honour. Whatever might be the case 
if we could ensure and prolong their possession, 
it is unreasonable to pay so high a price for what 
we must forego we know not how soon, and 
what we may be deprived of in consequence of 
the very means, by which we sought to secure 



ON MELANCHOLY. 201 

them. These considerations, and the high- 
spirited and happy temper, which they naturally 
inspire, are well expressed by Homer, when 
Sarpedon, after reminding Glaucus that it be- 
came those, who were distinguished by superior 
rank, to signalize themselves by superior exer- 
tions, continues in these words : 

ft wewovj h (a,£v yu.g woAe^oh wegi rovh QvyovrtS} 

^Eecricrtfi are x.iv otvroq hi ir^uroicri puypipyiv, 
Oyre xi as rtT&oiiAt (Axxfiv iq nvhaveigctv* 
Nyy 5 j spwYiq yocg x*jge$ eCpsruuiv Qccvoctoio 
Mvgiui, ccq »x i?i Qvyeiv /Sgorov, vo* v7ru>.v%CLi 9 

Could all our care elude the gloomy grave, 

Which claims no less the fearful than the brave, 

For thirst of fame I should not vainly dare 

In fighting fields, nor urge thy soul to war. 

But since, alas ! ignoble age must come, 

Disease, and death's inexorable doom, 

The life, which others pay, let us bestow, 

And give to fame what we to nature owe ; 

Brave though we fall, and honour'd if we live, 

Or let us glory gain, or glory give ! Pope, 

But the meanness and folly of sacrificing 

* Iliad, lib. 12. v. 322, 



202 ESSAY VI. 

honour and duty to what is at best so fleeting and 
uncertain, become still more glaring, when we 
take into account the futurity that awaits us. 
To this interesting prospect these views of our 
present condition naturally lead us, and render 
us more readily and deeply affected with the 
importance of securing a more permanent inte- 
rest in a better world. And it is evident, that 
instruction of this kind may be adorned with 
the most sublime and beautiful imagery, and 
afford the most delightful consolation. 

All the considerations, which have now been 
mentioned as proper topics of instruction, re- 
lieve from the painful languor and depression of 
melancholy, and even invigorate and cheer us 
under the recollection of our precarious and 
transitory condition. And it is in the view of 
comfort, as well as of instruction, that they may 
be urged not only in the most agreeable, but. 
impressive manner. 

To enjoy while we may the blessings which 
we have ; to engage ourselves in the pursuits, 
which duty and honour require at the time ; and, 
when we have done our part, to leave the care 



ON MELANCHOLY. 203 

of futurity to the powers above : these are the 
maxims, by which we should study to regulate 
our temper and conduct ; and according as we 
act up to them, we shall not only be resigned 
and cheerful under the prospect of mortality, 
but also find a refuge from the apprehension or 
the pressure of calamities. Such is the spirit 
of the directions given by Horace, in one of 
his odes to Mecenas, for passing with comfort 
through this uncertain world : 

Prudens futuri temporis exitum 
Caliginosa nocte premit Deus ', 
Ridetque, si mortalis ultra 
Fas trepidat. Quod adest, memento 

Componere aequus * * * * ' 
* * * * Ille potens sui 
Lsetusque deget, cui licet in diem 
Dixisse, vixi : eras vel atra 
Nube polum Pater occupato, 

Vel sole puro : non tamen irritum 
Quodcunque retro est efficiet : neque 
Diffinget, infectumque reddet 
Quod fugiens semel bora vexit,* 

* Lib. 3. Ode 29. v. 29. 



£04 ESSAY VI. 

Death itself, an event in some respects so 
awful and distressing, may yet be represented 
in a consolatory view. We lament it as the 
period of our enjoyments ; but it is also the pe- 
riod of the anxieties and fears and disappoint- 
ments and sufferings, which embitter the life 
of man. It removes us beyond the reach of 
every earthly misfortune, to that secure retreat, 
where cc the wicked cease from troubling, and 
cc the weary are at rest."* The poet, who in- 
dulged his melancholy among the graves of the 
unhonoured dead, relieves us, in the epitaph 
which he intends for himself, with this soothing 
view of our fate : 

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, 
A youth to fortune and to fame unknown- 

And he, who so emphatically exposed and be- 
wailed the vanity of human wishes, exhorts us 
to pray for a mind, which considers death as a 
blessing ; 

Qui spatium vitae extremum inter munera ponit 
Natura.f 

* Job. f Juvenal, Sat. 10. v. 358. 



4 

ON MELANCHOLY. 205 

But religion opens for our consolation hap- 
pier prospects, which give ample scope for the 
exertions of genius to relieve and even delight 
affliction itself. Beyond the clouds and storms 
that surround our present abode, we descry the 
heavenly regions, where the virtuous are called 
to their high destination ; where their time shall 
be diversified by employments more honour- 
able, more delightful and varied than the Earth 
can afford ; where the sphere of their existence 
shall be enlarged by the developement of new 
and unknown faculties, far beyond what the 
change would be, if the eyes of the blind were 
opened to the beauties of the universe - y where 
they shall be admitted to the society of the im- 
mortal powers, in scenes more glorious than na- 
ture has ever yet displayed in the fairest arrange- 
ments and aspects of our lower world. 

Our thoughts are more particularly turned to 
this direction by the death or separation of those 
whom we love. These are calamities, which 
every one has endured, or at least to which he 
finds himself continually exposed. And it af- 
fords the sweetest comfort, and awakens our 



!206 ESSAY VI. 

fancy to the most delightful ideas, to indulge 
the hope that we shall one day be united in a 
happier state; and that our remembrance is 
still cherished by our departed friends, who 
wait with anxiety for our deliverance from the 
troubles and dangers of life. In the composi- 
tions then, which we are now considering, it is 
evident what charms may be derived from these 
beautiful and affecting topics. It is with such 
reflections that Petrarch loves to sooth his sor- 
row, and inspires his readers with so tender a 
melancholy : 

Se lamentar augelli, o verdi fronde 
Mover soavemente all* aura estiva, 
O roco mormorar di lucid* onde 
S' ode d' una fiorita e fresca riva, 

JLa V i° seggia d* amor pensoso e scriva ; 

Lei che '1 Ciel ne mostro, terra n' asconde, 
Veggio, ed odo, ed intendo ; ch* ancor viva 
Di si lontan a' sospiri miei risponde. 

Deh perche* innanzi tempo ti consume ? 
Mi dice con pietatej a che pur versi 
Pegli occhi tristi un dolorosa jfiume ? 



ON MELANCHOLY. £07 

Bi me non pianger tu, che miei di fersi, 
Morendo, eterni ; e neir eterno lume, 
Quando mostrai di chiuder gli ocelli, apersi.* 

When birds lament, or when the green leaves play- 
To summer's fragrant breath, that softly blows, 
Or when clear waters hollow murm'ring stray, 
Where on some flow'ry bank I seek repose ; 

While HeavVs dear gift, whom Earth no longer shows 5 
Fills all my heart and prompts the pensive lay, 
Afar I see her answer to my woes, 
In pity's sweetest notes I hear her say, 

Ah ! why should sorrow thus your life consume ? 

Why waste in bitter tears each weary night ? 

No longer thus bewail my early doom ; 
For still your Laura lives to bless your sight ; 

From death I rose in youth's eternal bloom, 

And wak'd to rapture in the realms of light. 

Thomson also has caught the same spirit in 
the most beautiful of his songs : 

Tell me, thou soul of her I love, 
Whither, ah ! whither art thou fled r 
To what delightful world above, 
Appointed for the happy dead ? 

* Sonnet 11th, in the second part of the Rime del Pe~ 
trarca, in Castelvetro's edition at Venice, 1756, 



208 ESSAY VI. 

Or dost thou free at pleasure roam, 
And sometimes share thy lover's woe, 
Where void of thee his cheerless home 
Can now, alas ! no comfort know ? 

if thou hoverest round my walk, 
While under every well-known tree 

1 to thy fancied shadow talk, 
And ev'ry tear is full of thee ; 

Should then the weary eye of grief, 
Beside some sympathetic stream, 
In slumber find a short relief, 
O visit thou my soothing dream ! 

Here we do not mean to recommend, that 
an author should introduce all the topics of 
instruction and consolation which the subject 
may suggest. It is evident, that he is to be 
directed by the particular circumstances, whe- 
ther to choose such as are lighter and more 
familiar, or such as are more pathetic and sub- 
lime; and that to enforce one or two topics, 
which rise naturally from the principal subject, 
and which harmonize with the general effect, 
will render the composition far more impressive, 
than to distract the attention with a greater va- 
riety. At the same time it is to be wished, that 



ON MELANCHOLY. 309 

he were fully sensible of the beautiful imagery, 
and of the affecting and interesting considera- 
tions with which he might enrich and adorn his 
works. 

There is also great scope for the exertions of 
genius to those authors who would go still far- 
ther in their attempts to raise our melancholy; 
who are inclined to awaken our grief, that we 
have so much to suffer and so little to enjoy, or 
to alarm us with apprehension of the calamities, 
to which our nature is liable. But it is much 
to be regretted, that they sometimes allow them- 
selves to exaggerate the evils of our situation. 
Human life is sometimes exhibited as a state in 
which misery predominates; the severer evils, 
which come but rarely, are described as conti- 
nually embittering our lot ; and the more dread- 
ful calamities, which come but to few, are be- 
wailed as the general condition of mankind : 
while our various pleasures are either over- 
looked ; or, which is worse, represented as the 
means of rendering the calamities that follow 
them still more intolerable. In such cases, we 
may admire the author's talents in combining 

P 



210 ESSAY VI. 

skilfully into one horrid group all the most dis- 
mal sufferings, that are scattered among the 
many millions of the human race, and in which 
the individual sufferers find many alleviations, 
and many intervals of ease and comfort; we 
may admire the author's talents, and we may 
find some pleasure in comparing our own situa- 
tion with such a picture of wretchedness : at the 
same time we shall rest satisfied that the picture 
is overcharged, or at least that we are not per- 
sonally concerned. Or if we should be actually 
carried along with the representation, we are not 
indebted to the author, who has afflicted us so 
deeply with despondence and terror, and whose 
views are too remote from reality, to make 
amends for the pain by sound instruction. 

Dr. Young, a poet of no common talents, 
with a fertile, but not a well-regulated imagina- 
tion, has in his Night Thoughts several exam- 
ples of this exaggerated description. Thus in 
the first of these poems, after raising up at once 
the evils of war, famine, pestilence, volcanoes, 
storms, fire, intestine broils, oppression, mines, 
galleys, and hospitals, as also the miseries 



ON MELANCHOLY. 211 

that assail us even in peaceful and domestic life, 
he concludes with the following passage, which 
displays, indeed, a poetical imagination, but 
where we must regret that his talents have been 
so ill directed ; — 

A part how small of the terraqueous globe 

Is tenanted by man ! the rest a waste ; 

Rocks, deserts, frozen seas, and burning sands ; 

Wild haunts of monsters, poisons, stings, and death. 

Such is Earth's melancholy map ; but, far 

More sad ! this Earth is a true map of man. 

So bounded are its haughty lord's delights 

To woe's wide empire, where deep troubles toss, 

Loud sorrows howl, envenom'd passions bite, 

Rav'nous calamities our vitals seize, 

And threat'ning fate wide opens to devour. 

His melancholy goes even so far, that, instead 
of a salutary warning against the dangers of 
prosperity, he converts all the blessings of this 
world into judgments, and bids us tremble at 
the bounties of our Heavenly Father : — 

Stand on thy guard against the smiles of fate. 

Is Heav'n tremendous in its frowns ? Most sure ; 

And in its favours formidable too. 

Its favours here are trials, not rewards ; 

A call to duty, not discharge from care ; 

P 2 



212 ESSAY VI. 

And should alarm us full as much as woes ; 
Awake us to their cause and consequence, 
And make us tremble, weigh'd with our desert. 

Such descriptions of human life, if we believe 
them to be serious, may raise our compassion 
for the author, who appears to be afflicted with 
so deplorable a melancholy ; but unless we are 
brought to view things in the same dismal light, 
a state of mind in no respect desirable, we can- 
not be much interested on our own account. It 
is true, indeed, as we have already observed, 
that the melancholy accounts of life are seldom 
so far exaggerated, that s they may not at a par- 
ticular time correspond to our feelings. But 
they will be more generally interesting, as well 
as more useful, when they are not so remote 
from our real condition. 

The author, however, ought to remember, 
that in subjects which are so painful and de- 
pressing in themselves, it is still more requisite 
than in the former case, to relieve us by the 
amusement of the imagination, and by engaging- 
topics of instruction and comfort. 

With regard to the amusement of the imagi- 



ON MELANCHOLY. 213 

nation, it is evident, that in describing the cala- 
mities of life, and contrasting them with the 
happier situations, which either actually exist, 
or may be conceived, there is room for the most 
awful, sublime, and beautiful scenery. This is 
well exemplified in Gray's affecting ode on the 
distant prospect of Eton College. After a de- 
scription, in which the monuments of antiquity, 
the charms of nature, and the recollections of 
our early youth concur to awaken the fancy and 
affections, we are presented with a lively and 
interesting picture of the innocent sports and 
achievements of the younger generation, which 
is pathetically contrasted with the evils ready 
to befal them in " the changes and chances"* of 
this eventful life. 

We have to regret that the author did not 
exert his uncommon genius to display some of 
those topics of instruction and consolation which 
are so needful to reconcile us to this view of our 
condition. Beside those which have been al- 
ready mentioned, there are others also of the 
most interesting kind. The natural and happy 

* Liturgy. 



£14 ESSAY VI. 

influence of adversity, to check our follies; to 
render us severe to ourselves, and indulgent to 
others ; to train us to patience and courage ; to 
soften the heart ; and to raise our thoughts to a 
better world; the ever-watchful providence of 
our Heavenly Father, who makes " all things 
cc work together for good to them that love 
" him,"* who sooths and supports them in 
every time of need, and in a few years at the 
longest exalts them to a felicity, 4C to which the 
" sufferings of the present time are not once to 
" be compared :"* these considerations, which 
are able to brighten the darkest gloom of afflic- 
tion, may be wrought into the most engaging 
forms of sublimity and beauty, and well deserve 
the exertion of the highest talents. 

* St. Paul. 



ESSAY VIL 

ON THE TENDER AFFECTIONS. 

X HE tender affections, comprehending all the 
different modifications of love, appear in various 
forms and degrees, from the transient good- 
will which we feel for a common stranger, to the 
fondness with which the mother watches over 
her child in distress, or which unites the hearts 
of absent lovers. They may be accompanied 
with disappointment, or other circumstances 
productive of pain - 3 but that they are in them- 
selves delightful, requires neither proof nor il- 
lustration. We have already observed, that 
they are raised to an uncommon height by the 
view of distress, and form a great charm of 
those compositions, which engage us by pity ; 



216 ESSAY VII. 

and also that we frequently feel their soothing 
influence, even where the principal design of 
the passage is to awaken our terror or melan- 
choly. In general, it must be naturally agree- 
able, when the author represents the amiable 
qualities which are the objects of these affec- 
tions ; and still more so when he represents the 
affections themselves in some interesting situa- 
tion, prompting the conduct and possessing the 
heart. And it is of importance to consider more 
particularly how such representations may be 
rendered as engaging as possible. 

It is to be regretted, that several authors, 
particularly among our novelists and dramatic 
writers, should have made it so necessary to 
observe, that it is in bad taste, as well as im- 
proper in other respects, to allure the reader's 
affections to worthless characters ; for either the 
affections will be imperfectly raised, or the mo- 
ral feelings will lose their sensibility. Yet Ri- 
chardson, who no doubt wished tQ promote the 
interests of virtue, has exerted his great talents, 
in his celebrated novel of Clarissa, to attach us 
to a man, who coolly and systematically made 



ON THE TENDER AFFECTIONS. 217 

seduction his business, to which he devoted his 
time and accomplishments, in which he employ- 
ed the basest means, and from which he could 
not be restrained by compassion for the most 
cruel and irretrievable misery. The novelist or 
dramatic writer performs, indeed, an important 
service in reminding us, that the worthless may 
possess the most fascinating charms, and showing 
how their accomplishments and dissimulation 
may gain the hearts of the inexperienced. But 
it is highly improper, that the reader should be 
seduced to love the worthless -, nor can this be 
the way to raise our affections either in the most 
instructive or agreeable manner. 

The effect is far more delightful, when our love 
is engaged for those whom we esteem and ad- 
mire - 3 and especially when we sympathize with 
affections, which are not only displayed by wor- 
thy characters, but also directed to worthy ob- 
jects. We are mortified, that the amiable and 
high-minded Clarissa should throw away her 
love on a hard-hearted man, who was not only 
an habitual, but a professional profligate ^ and 
even in our highest admiration of her virtues 



218 ESSAY VII. 

the unpleasant mortification still lingers in our 
thoughts. On the other hand, our commisera- 
tion for Cecilia's affliction is relieved by the most 
soothing and interesting emotions ; a cordial 
esteem and affection both for Delville and her- 
self, and a perfect sympathy with their attach- 
ment to each other. 

But the tender affections are never so engag- 
ing, as when they improve the character. This, 
indeed, is their natural tendency, inasmuch as 
they prevent our attention from being confined 
to ourselves, and create both an interest in the 
welfare of others, and also an anxiety to recom- 
mend ourselves to their esteem. And it is won- 
derful how far in many instances they have sub- 
dued the selfishness and ferocity of human na- 
ture, and roused its timidity and indolence to 
indefatigable exertions and heroic exploits. 

At the same time it is to be acknowledged, 
that as their gratification may on some occasions 
interfere with prudence, honour, or duty, they 
may become the means of perverting the con- 
duct. And such cases may afford excellent sub- 
jects for raising our pity, and warning us against 



ON THE TENDER AFFECTIONS. 219 

the dangers to which we may be exposed from 
what are in themselves so generous dispositions. 
But the author has little claim to our gratitude, 
if he endeavours to gain our approbation to im- 
propriety ; nor ought he to expect, that we shall 
have a perfect and cordial sympathy with af- 
fections which corrupt the character. 

Thus the savage fury, which is kindled in the 
breast of Achilles by his grief for the loss of 
his beloved friend, diminishes our attachment 
as well as our esteem. We sympathize, indeed, 
with his ardour in the battle ; and we may even 
excuse in some degree the vengeance, which he 
wreaks on the dead body of Hector, since he is 
informed by a messenger from Heaven,* that 
Hector had ungenerously meditated the like in- 
sults on Patroclus ; though Homer himself, in 
spite of the prejudices of his age and country, 
acknowledges that his hero's conduct to his no- 
ble antagonist was on this occasion unseemly : 

'ExTogu (iiov 'AEIKEA (jwhro \%yoc,.\ 
* Iliad. 1. IS. v. 175. f Ibid. 1. 22. v. 395. 



220 ESSAY VII. 

But we see no longer the hero, but the bar- 
barian only, when he sacrifices in cold blood 
twelve of the Trojan youth on no other account 
than to grace the funeral of his friend. We 
should certainly have both loved and admired 
him more, if he had spared this most unneces- 
sary and unreasonable cruelty. And we should 
have been shocked with the poet also, if he had 
not expressly called it afoul deed : 

K.AKA 5e p^ecrt pj^ro Igyu,,* 

On the other hand, we have a delightful ex- 
ample of the happier influence of the kind af- 
fections, when the deadly wrath of Achilles, 
which no other consideration had power to 
soften, yields to the tenderness that was awak- 
ened by the sight of Priam's age and misery, 
and by the recollection of his own father's for- 
lorn situation, so pathetically urged by the ve- 
nerable supplicant : 

'OiXTHguv woAto* re >cag»j, wo?uov re yevetov' 
* Iliad. 1. 23. v. 176. 



ON THE TENDER AFFECTIONS. 221 

3 A &»*', 'n 8ti 9ToM« kocx civtrxeo <rou Kara 0v/xov. 



The rev'rend monarch by the hand he rais'd ; 
On his white beard and form majestic gaz'd, 
Not unrelenting : then serene began 
With words to sooth the miserable man. 

Alas ! what weight of anguish hast thou known ? 
Unhappy prince ! thus guardless and alone 
To pass through foes, and thus undaunted face 
The man whose fury has destroy'd thy race ! 

Pope. 

Although it be sullied with some marks of the 
barbarity of the times, it is not easy to conceive 
a more pleasing picture than what is exhibited 
in this part of the Iliad, Achilles entertaining so 
kindly the father of Hector, and so gently en- 
deavouring to sooth his affliction. 

Here we have an example of ferocity sub- 
dued by tenderness. But it is still more de- 
lightful to observe the kind affections awakening 
the sublimer virtues, and supporting even the 

* Iliad. 1. 24. r. 515. 



282: ESSAY VII. 

weaker and more timid sex in sufferings and 
exertions, which might be supposed to exceed 
the power of human nature. The tragedy of the 
Grecian Daughter has acquired its popularity 
from such an exhibition of filial piety ; and fic- 
tion itself has never exceeded what has often 
been produced in real life by the unutterable 
fondness of a mother's love. 

It has sometimes, however, been asserted, 
that the affection to which the name of love is 
more peculiarly given, enfeebles and degrades 
the> character. And if this were true, the repre- 
sentation of it could never be proper, except 
with the view of warning us against its seducing 
influence; nor would it be so engaging to vir- 
tuous minds, as the representation of gratitude, 
compassion, friendship, filial and parental affec- 
tion, which naturally prompt to generous un- 
dertakings. 

Now the assertion, no doubt, has a certain 
degree of truth ; but it is far from being true in 
general, and requires the same distinction as in 
the case of our other affections. For although 
the natural tendency of love is to improve, yet 



ON THE TENDER AFFECTIONS. 223 

it must be admitted, that in particular cases it 
may degrade the character. It may degrade 
the character, not only when it is directed to an 
unworthy object, but also when it so far occu- 
pies the attention, as to occasion an indolent 
and effeminate life ; and, like every other pas- 
sion, it may unhappily interfere with prudence, 
honour, or duty, and thus betray the unwary 
into guilt and misery. 

Yet, although subjects of this kind represent 
the tender affections not only in the most unfa- 
vourable, but also in the least engaging view, 
they may certainly be treated in such a manner 
as to interest the most virtuous agreeably as well 
as usefully. For it has been already observed, 
in the Essay on Pity, that the crimes and cala- 
mities produced by those passions, which are 
virtuous and amiable in themselves, are admir- 
ably adapted for pathetic compositions : and 
the slighter follies and inconveniences into 
which they lead the thoughtless, are fair and 
useful topics for humorous writers. But the 
elegiast, who, like Tibullus, or his imitator* 
Hammond, would represent it as wisdom and 



224 ESSAY VII. 

virtue to devote our life to dalliance; or the 
novelist, who, like Rousseau, would fascinate 
us into the approbation of a disgraceful inter- 
course, must either fail to gain our sympathy, 
or must gain it at the expense of our better 
feelings. And we have to regret, that the 
ill-directed talents of this extraordinary man 
were not rather employed to connect love in 
our imagination with that improvement of cha- 
racter, which it will naturally produce in vir- 
tuous minds. 

This improvement arises in the first place 
from the anxiety of the lovers to recommend 
themselves to each other's esteem. In the days 
of chivalry, the warriors were animated to the 
most daring exploits, by the hope of acquiring 
or deserving the approbation of the ladies. — 
Even in ordinary life, and in the present times, 
when, unfortunately for both parties, the men 
are less accustomed to offer so respectful a 
homage to the gentler sex, the expectation of 
gaining an amiable partner will often reclaim 
the young from idleness and folly, and rouse 
them to honourable industry and honourable 



ON THE TENDER AFFECTIONS. 225 

ambition. In general, the higher the opinion 
which the lovers entertain of each other (and 
of all passions love is that which produces the 
greatest partiality to its object), the more 
anxious will they become to follow the conduct, 
and to acquire the temper, the accomplish- 
ments, and the virtues, which may entitle them 
to mutual respect. " Great God !" cried the 
brave Abradates, as he departed to battle from 
the last embraces of his wife, arrayed in the 
dress, which that high-minded but affectionate 
woman had secretly prepared with her own 
hand for the occasion ; " Great God," he cried, 
" grant me but to show myself worthy of Pan- 
" thea!"* 

In our own days, as well as in those ancient 
times, and in all ranks of life, many similar ex- 
amples are certainly to be found, where the se- 

The whole story, which Xenophon has told in his best 
manner, is one of the most beautiful that have been re- 
corded by the ancient authors. Ariosto has borrowed se- 
veral hints from it in a very affecting episode in Orlando 
Furioso. 



■2-iz 

cnrity and familiarity of the married state have 
not extinguished the ardour of love. This, how- 

", is far from being always the case. K 
pv and secure in the possession of each other, 
the married lovers are too apt to forget how soon 
they m:v lose :aeir influence, if they discontinue 
the means by which they acquired it, and thus 
r less attentive to the importance of fixing 

:'.i other's esteem. But the evil rests not 
here ; it too often happens, that the mutual re- 
spect sol i les, which once rendered each others 
esteem the object of their dearest ambition. F ; i . 
in a constant and familiar intercourse, they will 
undoubtedly c is : : a [ties and infirmities, 
which were unnoticed by the partial eyes of 
love, or which their anxiety to gain each oth e 
affection prompted them to conceal, and, per- 
haps, partly to subdue. The : appeared 
like angels, are found to be but mortals ; and the 
heal of mortals is not without faults. It is :rue, 
indeed, that, beside the forbearance to his fel- 
low-creatures, which ought to be produced in 

ry one by the consciousness of his own in 
— zzod sense, good nature, and affection. 



ON THE TENDER AFFECTIONS. 22?' 

will easily overlook, in those whom we love, the 
frailties incident to our present condition. But 
good sense, good nature, and affection are some- 
times asleep ; and the mortification at not find- 
ing realized those ideas of angelic perfection, 
which fill the imaginations of youthful lovers 
before their union, will render some persons un- 
reasonably offended with the infirmities of our 
common nature, and perversely hardened and 
blind to the real charms, and real merits, even 
of the most amiable and respectable partners. 

On the other hand, there is no situation in 
which one human creature is disposed to think 
more favourably, or more anxious to gain the 
esteem of another, than in that of virtuous lo- 
vers before their union. And these sentiments 
have not less influence on account of the restraint 
to which they are subjected, when the union is 
prevented by the imperious call of honour, or 
of duty ; when love, though it can but ill conceal, 
dares scarcely avow itself; and with but little 
hope of any more intimate and dearer con- 
nexion, must be content to assume the name, 
and aspire to the privileges of friendship only. 

Q 2 



&$& ESSAY VII. 

Nor would the power of love, in improving the 
character, be so often extinguished after mar- 
riage, if the parties were but half as ready as 
before it, to overlook in each other the infirmi- 
ties of human nature, half as gentle to each 
other's failings, half as attentive to remark and 
to acknowledge each other's accomplishments 
and virtues, and half as fearful of losing the af- 
fections of each other. 

But love may improve the character, not only 
by rendering the parties anxious to acquire mu- 
tual esteem, but also by exciting them to great 
and even heroic exertions to promote each 
other's happiness or honour. It is well known to 
what desperate valour the youth may be exalted, 
when his imagination, roused by anxiety and 
glowing with desire, arrays the object of his ad- 
miration with an angel's charms. And although 
possession dissolves the attachment of the vici- 
ous, and abates what is extravagant in the admi- 
ration of youthful lovers* yet, while they preserve 
the dispositions of mutual indulgence and par- 
tiality, it will heighten the tenderness of the af- 
fectionate and worthy. Nor do I know if ro- 



ON THE TENDER AFFECTIONS. 229 

mantic fancy has ever conceived more endearing 
or sublimer views of human nature, than those 
examples of heroism which women have often 
displayed under the influence of conjugal love. 
I know not, for instance, if any representation 
can either awaken more delightful emotions, or 
raise us higher above selfish and ungenerous 
feelings, than the following relation, which de- 
serves so well to be recorded, for the honour of 
the fair sex, and the instruction of ours. 

It is taken from General Burgoyne's State of 
the Expedition into Canada, during the cam- 
paigns of 1776 and 1777. On the march of the 
19th of September, 1777, Lady Harriet Ack- 
land, the wife of Major Ackland, of the grena- 
diers, had been directed by her husband to fol- 
low the route of the artillery and baggage, 
which was not exposed, his own party being 
liable to action at every step. The relation is 
continued by General Burgoyne in these words : 

" At the time the action began, she found 
" herself near a small uninhabited hut, where 
" she alighted. When it was found the action 
" was becoming general and bloody, the sur- 



230 ESSAY VII. 

" geons of the hospital took possession of the 
" same place, as the most convenient for the 
" first care of the wounded. Thus was this 
" lady in hearing of one continued fire of can- 
" non and musketry for some hours together, 
6e with the presumption, from the post of her 
*' husband, at the head of the grenadiers, that he 
cc was in the most exposed part of the action. 
" She had three female companions, the Ba- 
" roness of Reidese], and the wives of two Bri- 
" tish officers, Major Harnage and Lieutenant 
" Reynell; but, in the event, their presence 
"• served but little for comfort. Major Harnage 
" was soon brought to the surgeons, very badly 
" wounded ; and a little while after came intel- 
<c ligence, that Lieutenant Reynell was shot 
" dead. Imagination will want no helps to 
" figure the state of the whole group. 

cf From the date of that action, to the 7th of 
" October, Lady Harriet, with her usual sere- 
" nity, stood prepared for new trials. And it 
" was her lot, that their severity increased with 
" their numbers. She was again exposed to the 
" hearing of the whole action, and at last re- 



ON THE TENDER AFFECTIONS. 231 

" ceived the shock of her individual misfortune, 
" mixed with the intelligence of the general ca- 
" lamity; the troops were defeated, and Major 
fC Ackland, desperately wounded, was a pri- 
" soner. 

" The day of the 8th was passed by Lady 
" Harriet and her companions in common 
cc anxiety 3 not a tent or a shed being standing, 
" except what belonged to the hospital, their 
*■? refuge was among the wounded and the 
" dying. 

" I soon received a message from Lady Har- 
" riet, submitting to ray decision a proposal 
cc (and expressing an earnest solicitude to exe- 
*•* cute it, if not interfering with my designs) of 
" passing to the camp of the enemy, and re- 
" questing General Gates's permission to attend 
<c her husband. 

" Though I was ready to believe (for I had 
" experienced) that patience and fortitude, in 
" a supreme degree, were to be found, as well 
" as every virtue* under the most tender forms, 
" I was astonished at this proposal. After so 
f< long an agitation of spirits, exhausted not 



232 ESSAY VII. 

" only for want of rest, but absolutely want of 
* f food, drenched in rains for twelve hours to- 
" gether, that a woman should be capable of 
" such an undertaking as delivering herself to 
(e the enemy, probably in the night, and un- 
*f certain of what hands she might fall into, ap- 
" peared an effort above human nature. The 
<c assistance I was enabled to give was small in- 
" deed ; I had not even a cup of wine to offer 
<c her ; but I was told she had found, from 
" some kind and fortunate hand, a little rum 
" and dirty water. All I could furnish to her 
" was an open boat, and a few lines, written 
" upon dirty and wet paper, to General Gates, 
" recommending her to his protection. 

" Mr. Brudenell, the chaplain to the artil- 
" lery, readily undertook to accompany her, 
" and with one female servant, and the major's 
" valet de chambre (who had a ball, which he 
" had received in the late action, then in his 
" shoulder) she rowed down the river to meet 
" the enemy. But her distresses were not yet 
" to end. The night was advanced before the 
" boat reached the enemy's out-posts, and the 



ON THE TENDER AFFECTIONS. 233 

" sentinel would not let it pass, nor even come 
" to shore. In vain Mr. Brudenell offered the 
f * flag of truce, and represented the state of the 
cc extraordinary passenger. The guard, appre- 
" hensive of treachery, and punctilious to their 
" orders, threatened to fire into the boat, if 
" they stirred before day-light. Her anxiety 
<c and sufferings were thus protracted through 
" seven or eight dark and cold hours ; and her 
" reflections upon that first reception could 
U not give her very encouraging ideas of the 
" treatment she was afterwards to expect. But 
" it is due to justice, at the close of this adven- 
" ture, to say, that she was received and ac- 
** commodated by General Gates with all the 
" humanity and respect, that her rank, her me- 
u rits, and her fortunes deserved. 

" Let such as are affected by these circum- 
" stances of alarm, hardships, and dangers, re- 
" collect, that the subject of them was a woman - y 
" of the most tender and delicate frame -, of the 
" gentlest manners ; habituated to all the soft 
cc elegancies and refined enjoyment, that attend 
" high birth and fortune ; and far advanced in 



234 ESSAY VII. 

cc a state, in which the tender cares, always due 
" to the sex, become indispensably necessary. 
" Her mind alone was formed for such trials/ ' 

It is easy to conceive, that the interchange of 
affections, which are not only so delightful, but 
also capable of raising us so much above the 
sufferings and the fears of human nature, will 
prove the most powerful and sweetest comfort 
to distress. And, in fact, it is in the distresses 
of those whom we love, it is in the situations 
where they most need the aid of sympathy, that 
our affections burn with their greatest ardour. 
Thus our subject presents itself again in a dif- 
ferent view, which is extremely engaging, and 
naturally combined with that which we have 
just been considering. 

Racine has given an admirable specimen in 
one of the finest passages of his celebrated tra- 
gedy, Britannicus. It is in the third scene of 
the second act, where Nero, who had obtained 
possession of the empire in opposition to Britan- 
nicus, makes the flattering offer of his hand and 
throne to Junia. And here it must be remem- 
bered, that Nero had not yet exhibited those 



ON THE TENDER AFFECTIONS. 235 

vices, which afterwards rendered him the abhor- 
rence of mankind ; but, on the contrary, was 
regarded as an amiable young man, of uncom- 
mon accomplishments, and promising disposi- 
tions. But Junia, who had been already be- 
trothed to his unfortunate rival, acknowledges 
her reason for declining the emperor's solicita- 
tion, in the following reply : 

J'aime Britannicus *. je lui fus destinee 
Quand Fempire devoit suivre son hymenee. 
Mais ces memes malheurs qui Ten ont ecarte, 
Ses honneurs abolis, son palais deserte, 
La fuite d'une com* que sa chute a bannie, 
Sont autant de liens qui retiennent Junie. 

Tout ce que vous voyez conspire a vos desirs ; 
Vos jours toujours sereins coulent dans les plaisirs ; 
I/empire en est pour vous Finepuisable source ; 
Ou, si quelque chagrin en interrompt la course, 
Tout Funivers, soigneux de les entretenir, 
S'empresse a FefFacer de votre souvenir. 
Britannic us est seul. Quelque ennui qui le presse, 
II ne voit dans son sort que moi qui s'mteresse, 
Et n'a pour tout plaisir, seigneur, que quelques pleurs, 
Qui lui font quelquefois oublier ses malheurs. 

Britannicus was destin'd for my spouse, 
When the world's empire would have crown'd our vows ; 
And these calamities, which lay him low, 
His honours blasted in their early blow, 



236 ESSAY VII. 

His empty palace, and his faithless train, 
Wreathe round his Junia's heart a closer chain. 

All that you see conspires to your delight ; 
With varying pleasures all your days are bright ; 
The empire pours its wealth to give you joy ; 
And, if by chance a passing care annoy, 
All eager strive some soothing art to find, 
And to new bliss restore your troubled mind. 
With you the world rejoice, with you they mourn, 
But my Britannicus remains forlorn. 
Whatever cares oppress, no friends appear, 
No friend but I, to whom his welfare's dear. 
My tears are all the comfort he can know, 
Which sometimes steal his heart awhile from woe. 

The power of love, to support the affectionate 
in the most trying situations, is so great, that 
the very consciousness of being beloved by the 
objects of their attachment will disarm of its 
terrors even death itself. Metastasio has not 
gone farther than many of his readers can follow 
him, when he represents the Parthian prince, 
Pharnaspes,* who had been miserable from the 
suspicion that Emirena had forsaken him, con- 
soling himself under the prospect of a fatal 
sentence, with the thoughts of her truth and love. 
It is thus that he addresses her at the instant 

* In the Opera of Adriano in Siria. 



ON THE TENDER AFFECTIONS. 237 

when he was carried, as he supposed, to cer- 
tain execution, without the hope of ever seeing 
her more : — 

Se non ti moro allato, 
i Idolo del cor mio, 
Col tuo bel nome amato 
Fra' labbri io moriro. 

Addio, mia vita, addio ; 
Non piangere il mio fato : 
Misero non son io, 
Sei fida, ed io lo so. 

Though Emirena be not near 
To sooth me in the hour of death, 
I'll still repeat that name so dear, 
And bless you with my latest breath. 

Farewel, my love ; but do not mourn ; 
From henceforth shall my anguish cease ; 
I thought you false, and liv'd forlorn, 
I know your truth, and die in peace. 

It must be acknowledged, however, that if 
the tender affections are the source of our most 
exquisite delights, so are they likewise of our 
bitterest sorrows. Who can describe the an- 
guish that wrings the heart, when the objects of 
our dearest attachment are torn from us by for- 



%3& ESSAY VII. 

tune, or by death ? or when the eye, which 
once beamed with affection, and was the sun- 
shine of our soul, meets us only with the cold 
look of unkindness or neglect ? Men of the 
firmest minds, who could bear every other cala- 
mity without a murmur, have sometimes found 
themselves unequal to such distresses, and have 
either thrown away their life as an intolerable 
burden, or given themselves up a prey to me- 
lancholy or distraction. 

But from the tender affections themselves, 
which inflict the wound, they might have de- 
rived the most soothing consolation, if they had 
looked for it where religion directs. For religion 
directs our attention to that happier country, 
where the virtuous shall find again their vir- 
tuous friends ; and shall find them far removed 
from those troubles and frailties and misunder- 
standings, which so often, in the present world, 
interrupt or embitter the purest attachments. 
Religion even encourages the delightful idea, 
which we cherish so fondly when we lay our 
friends in the dust, that although we see them 
no more, they do not forsake us, but sometimes 



ON THE TENDER AFFECTIONS. 239 

look down to our humble dwelling, and long to 
receive us for their companions in happiness.* 
And from these views it is evident how many 
representations may be formed, to lull the sor- 
rows, and even to revive the hearts of those, 
who have been crossed in their dearest wishes. 

But a still sublimer view is opened for our 
comfort, in the " loving kindness and tender 
" mercies'* of our heavenly Father. For with 
this most affecting character, and its most en- 
dearing attributes, the Lord of the Universe has 
softened the awful glories of the Divinity, and 
rendered his throne accessible to the children 
of the dust. " Sing, O Heavens," cried the 
prophet, in the midst of desolation ; " Sing, O 
cc Heavens, and be joyful, O Earth -> and break 
" forth into singing, O mountains ; for the Lord 
" hath comforted his people, and will have 
" mercy upon the afflicted. But Zion said, the 
" Lord hath forsaken me, and my Lord hath 
" forgotten me. Can a woman forget her suck- 



* See Epistle to the Hebrews, ch. 12, v. 1, compared with 
the 11th chapter. 



£40 ESSAY VII. 

" ing child, that she should not have com- 
cc passion on the son of her womb ? Yea, they 
" may forget, yet will I not forget thee."* — - 
Where then is the wretch so lost, that he may 
not find consolation, if he will but listen to that 
still, small voice, " Come unto me, all ye that 
cc are weary and heavy laden, and I will give 
6C you rest?" It is the voice of him who died 
for our sake, of him who is higher than the 
angels, of 'God himself; of him, whose favour 
cannot be lost, but by our future iniquity alone ; 
of him, who can change into a Paradise the 
waste, howling wilderness, and the grave itself 
into the gate of Heaven ; of him, who has com- 
forts and joys in store, beyond the utmost 
wishes of the heart of man. 

Since then the tender ^affections may be ex- 
hibited in such various forms, to contribute at 
once to our improvement and delight, let not 
men of genius degrade them to win our attach- 
ment to worthless characters, or to allure us to 
a vicious, indolent, or effeminate life. And 

* Isaiah, xlix. 13. 



ON THE TENDER AFFECTIONS. 241 

although it is, indeed, a meritorious employ- 
ment, to warn the inexperienced against the 
arts of the profligate, and to represent the er- 
rors and crimes into which the most amiable 
dispositions may betray the unwary : it is also 
of the highest importance sometimes to exhibit 
our fellow-creatures in a more favourable view, 
to rouse our emulation, by characters who unite 
the respectable to the amiable qualities, and to 
show (what is not unfrequently exemplified in 
the world) how the tender affections, when pro- 
perly directed, are productive of the most gene- 
rous and heroic virtues. Moreover ; while pa- 
thetic writers exert their utmost abilities to 
" harrow up the soul," with the representation 
of human nature perishing in despair, under 
the agonies of its tortured passions ; why do 
they not indulge us oftener with those more 
beautiful, and not less interesting or less use- 
ful forms of the pathetic, where the kind emo- 
tions are employed to sooth the sorrows of life, 
and to brighten its dreary hours ? And surely 
it is a service worthy of their highest powers, 
to elevate our minds to those sublimer views, 

R 



242 ESSAY VII. 

where Heaven and Earth are united by the 
bonds of love •> those views which can support 
us in the worst of miseries, when our last hope 
is blasted, when our last friend has forsaken us. 



ESSAY VIII. 



ON BEAUTY. 



A GREAT part of the pleasure which we re- 
ceive from works of literature, arises from the 
representation of beautiful objects, or from the 
beauties of the compositions themselves. Thus 
we are led to consider the nature of beauty > 
a subject which has engaged the attention of 
philosophers ever since the days of Socrates and 
Plato. 

Few speculative subjects have occasioned 
greater perplexity. In fact, the term beautiful 
is sometimes applied to any agreeable object 
whatever, either in nature or in the fine arts, 
more particularly if it is excellent in its kind. 
It is in this sense that we understand the com- 
R % 



244 ESSAY VIII. 

mon expression, " the Beauties of Shakespeare 
" or Milton :" and thus Akenside applies the 
word to every thing which it is " pleasatit to 
" look upon," when he says that the Creator 
has " made all nature Beauty to our eye." 
This vague meaning, however, admits of no 
discussion -, and we are to consider only the 
more limited use of the term. But even in its 
more limited use it is applied to objects of the 
most different species. We speak of a beautiful 
woman, and a beautiful tree; a beautiful build- 
ing, and a beautiful piece of music \ a beau- 
tiful poem, and a beautiful theorem. And it 
has not been found easy to detect, in objects 
so incongruous, the common or similar qua- 
lities, which should entitle them all to the same 
appellation. 

This appellation however, in its appropriate 
meaning, is not applied indiscriminately to 
every agreeable, nor yet to every interesting 
object either in nature or in the fine arts. All 
men will acknowledge the beautiful to be per- 
fectly distinct from the ludicrous. And it 
would require singular ingenuity to identify it 



ON BEAUTY. 245 

with the terrible, whatever may be the at- 
tractions of terrifying objects. Pity indeed 
would appear to be nearly related to the emo- 
tions which are produced by the more interest- 
ing forms of beauty. 

" 'Tis but a kindred sound to move, 
" For pity melts the mind to love." 

But although the representation of distress must 
always be interesting, yet it does not always 
assume a beautiful aspect, even under the poet's 
or the painter's hand. In Milton's Paradise 
Lost, the farewel of Eve to the scenes of her 
innocent and happier days, is both pathetic 
and beautiful in a high degree ; 

Qualis populea mcerens Philomela sub umbra.* 

But a different character prevails in the awful 
chords that are struck, in the horrid and ghastly 
forms that arise, when the same great master 
exhibits the far more deplorable miseries of the 
infernal host. The peaceful stream that winds 

* Georg. 1. 4. Like the nightingale lamenting under the 
poplar shade. * 



£46 ESSAY VIII. 

through flowery meadows and fruitful vales, no 
person would hesitate to call a beautiful object. 
But to apply the same epithet to a foaming 
cataract rushing down the craggy side of a 
mountain, would not be considered as a happy 
choice of words. 

It is true, that in many of the finer scene- 
ries of nature we may be at a loss to discover 
whether the beautiful or sublime prevails. And 
what is more, in certain instances even the 
most practised artist may be unable to decide 
to which of those two great departments a par- 
ticular object more peculiarly belongs, and 
may pronounce it to be indifferently a denizen 
of either. The splendour and brilliant orna- 
ments of a ball-room, for example, may in 
many cases be described as grand or beautiful 
with equal propriety. In fact, the same am- 
biguity takes place in the classifications of 
every art and science, even in those which are 
most obviously pointed out by nature, and 
where it is of the greatest importance to con- 
sider the classes distinct from each other. There 
are various objects which the most skilful na- 



ON BEAUTY. 247 

turalists cannot determine to belong rather to 
the vegetable than to the animal kingdom : yet 
although it is advantageous to compare animals 
and vegetables together, it is requisite to study 
separately those two great orders, between which, 
in all the more perfect species, we find so marked 
a separation. Or to take an example of a dif- 
ferent kind : what we call the simple colours 
run imperceptibly into each other; green, for 
instance, degenerates gradually on one side 
into yellow, and on the other into blue; still 
those three capital colours are not only dis- 
tinguishable clearly in their principal shades, 
but also on many delightful objects imprint 
very lively, yet very dissimilar characters. 
Although then the beautiful should in parti- 
cular cases be not . merely blended but even 
identified with other charms, this may not be 
a sufficient ground for neglecting to inquire 
into the nature of a quality which the general 
language of mankind seems to point out as a 
peculiar and favourite attraction. 

This attraction is indeed ascribed by the ge- 
neral language of mankind to objects of very 



248 ESSAY VIII. 

different kinds. But although frequently they 
are entirely different in every thing else which 
can render them agreeable, yet I apprehend 
that all of them have this common quality, 
namely, that they not only delight, but also 
tranquillize ; by which last expression is meant, 
that they produce a state of mind directly the 
reverse of distraction and perplexity. And 
whenever this effect, at once delightful and 
soothing* is felt from the impression of any 
object either on the eye or on the ear, either 
on the imagination or on the understanding, no 
person hesitates to call the object beautiful. 

It is obvious however that this term will not 
be applied, unless the pleasure is so blended 
with the impression as to form but one sen- 
sation. A few drops of laudanum may com- 
pose the mind into the most agreeable tran- 
quillity ; but this pleasure results neither from 
the sight, the taste, nor the smell - 3 the drug 
must be first of all received into the stomach, 
where we are sensible either of no impression, 
or of a nausea 5 and thus the soothing effect is 
so completely separate from any other im- 



ON BEAUTY. 249 

pression of which we are conscious, that beauty 
is not enumerated among the qualities of lauda- 
num. It is true also, that from accidental cir- 
cumstances, a beautiful object may sometimes 
distract or perplex even to torture ; as when the 
sight or remembrance of his mistress awakens 
the anguish of an anxious, or despairing, or 
suspicious lover. But I do not know that the 
term beautiful is conceived to be applicable 
with propriety to any object, unless the im- 
pression made by that object, when it is not 
counteracted by accidental causes, have an im- 
mediate tendency to sooth as well as to de- 
light. 

In objects of sight, the qualities to which the 
term beautiful is peculiarly appropriated are 
well known to be the following : A smooth and 
polished surface, together with constant and 
gentle variation, without any sudden breaks or 
angular turns ; but the parts melting, as it were, 
imperceptibly into each other : the colours clear 
and bright, but not glaring, without any distinct 
boundaries, but losing themselves in each other 
by insensible shades. 



250 ESSAY VIII. 

It is true, that some association of ideas may, 
in certain cases, render these qualities not mere- 
ly unattractive, but disgusting. The ideas of 
sickness and disease which would unavoidably 
obtrude, must prevent any combination of blue 
and yellow from producing a beautiful com- 
plexion in the human face, however gradually 
the yellow may melt into the livid. But when- 
ever their natural tendency is not counteracted 
by adventitious circumstances, the qualities al- 
ready enumerated have been universally called 
beautiful, and their soothing effect, though fre- 
quently but slight, is yet sufficiently percep- 
tible. 

Here it is natural to inquire how such an ef- 
fect is produced by such a cause. 

That the sight of these qualities serves only 
to suggest a train of interesting ideas, is cer- 
tainly an ingenious solution of the difficulty -, 
and in many cases accounts, in a satisfactory 
manner, for by far the greater part, if not the 
whole of our pleasure. At the same time it 
may not be improper to state the following ob- 
servations. 



ON BEAUTY. £51 

Both the bodily appetites and the emotions 
of the mind are very frequently excited, neither 
by the presence nor by the imagination of their 
proper objects, nor by means of any train of 
ideas whatever, but by causes of quite a differ- 
ent nature. The desire of food, for example, is, 
no doubt, sometimes awakened by the acci- 
dental suggestion of a favourite dish, and may 
be awakened in this way, when it would other- 
wise have been dormant, and even when its 
gratification would not be salutary. But it is 
more naturally produced, without the interven- 
tion of the fancy, by a certain state of the bo- 
dily organs ; so that in this case there is not 
any train of ideas which awakens the appe- 
tite, although the appetite afterwards may or 
may not awaken a very interesting train of 
ideas. 

In like manner a certain state of the body, 
without the intervention of associated ideas, and 
with little or no sensation of bodily pleasure or 
bodily pain, will in many cases awaken the 
emotions of the mind to a very remarkable de- 
gree. The powers of wine to enliven, and of 



$52 ESSAY VIII. . 

laudanum to sooth, are too well known and too 
frequently employed ; yet it will not be said, 
that a train of interesting ideas can be suggest- 
ed by the reception of these liquors into the 
stomach or into the circulation. Such a train 
may, no doubt, succeed, and increase our plea- 
sure ; but it is manifest, that this play of the 
imagination is the effect, not the cause, of the 
wonderful change in our mind. 

In fact, the emotions are frequently raised by 
the state of the body, not only without the in- 
tervention of associated ideas, but even in di- 
rect opposition to those ideas with which the 
mind is haunted at the time. A man, over- 
powered with distressing thoughts, is not al- 
ways resolute enough to betake himself to con- 
versation, study, or business, which are the 
most likely means to alter the train of his ideas $ 
and such a person has been known to try in 
solitude the powers of wine or laudanum : but 
his distressing thoughts concern him too nearly 
and deeply to be banished by this expedient ; 
after he has swallowed his dose they continue 
to haunt him, and yet he is enlivened or sooth- 



ON BEAUTY. 253 

ed in spite of them. Thus the unfelt operation 
of a drug, without being able to banish, is yet 
often sufficient to counteract for a while the 
most interesting ideas, to change the very frame 
of the mind, and to render a man easy and 
cheerful in the same external situation, and in 
the midst of the same importunate imaginations 
which were tormenting him insupportably, or 
overwhelming him with despair. v 

But more familiar examples daily occur of 
mental emotions excited by the state of the 
body, in direct opposition to present ideas and 
present objects. We may be content and 
happy at night, and yet awaken in the morning 
without any bodily uneasiness, but with very 
acute sensations of peevishness or anger; and 
these sensations will sometimes continue, even 
although we cannot tell at what we are angry - 9 
and even although we are conscious that the 
friends around us, and the expected engage- 
ments of the day, and the general prospects of 
our situation, should naturally inspire far other 
emotions. This consciousness, and the convic- 
tion that there is not either in our thoughts or 



^54 ESSAY VIII. 

in the present objects, any thing which can jus- 
tify or even which has provoked our passion, 
are sufficient to prevent in persons of well- 
trained minds the absurd outrages in which the 
ill-tempered indulge themselves during their 
angry moods; yet are not always sufficient to 
expel the passion, nor, perhaps, to restrain us 
from betraying a little the state of our mind by 
a demeanour somewhat unquiet and less gra- 
cious than usual. But the sensations of joy and 
affection, which the company of our friends, and' 
the recollection of our blessings may on such 
occasions have failed to inspire, will quickly 
revive by the application of an apparently most 
inadequate, though well-approved medicine, 
namely, a hearty breakfast. And it is obvious, 
that if the effect were produced by the sugges- 
tion of ideas, the temper would be sweetened as 
effectually by looking at the breakfast as by 
eating it ; which is contrary to all experience. 
It is well known also, that a certain degree of 
fasting, though it is not so great as to occasion 
any other uneasiness, will sometimes be attend- 
ed with feelings of apprehension or of melan- 



ON BEAUTY. Z55 

choly, even when we are not visited by any 
gloomy phantoms, but are convinced at the 
very time that the feelings are vain and un- 
founded. 

Mr. Burke, in his Inquiry into the Origin of 
our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful, has 
mentioned instances of a different kind, where 
the effect appears to resemble the emotion pro- 
duced by the sight of the beautiful qualities al- 
ready enumerated. Infants are lulled to quiet, 
and at last to sleep, by rocking. They are evi- 
dently soothed, and that to a very great degree, 
as nurses well know, by being lifted gently up 
and down. As they grow older, they have re- 
course of themselves to balancing and swinging, 
as favourite amusements. Most people will re- 
collect their feelings on these occasions ; as also 
what they have felt, when they were drawn 
swiftly in an easy carriage, over a smooth turf, 
with gentle risings and declivities. In all such 
cases, we are conscious, more or less, of a de- 
lightful serenity, accompanied (to use Mr. 
Burke's terms upon another occasion) with " an 



256 r ESSAY VIII. 

" inward" and agreeable " sense of melting 
iC and languor/ ' 

To these examples, which have been men- 
tioned by our author, we may add the case of 
sailing, when the surface of the sea is continu- 
ally diversified by smooth and gentle swells j 
and the vessel is small enough to be sensibly 
affected by the rising and falling of the waters. 
To such as are not sick or afraid, there is, per- 
haps, no situation, in which both the pleasing 
serenity, and the " inward sense of melting 
" and languor' ■ are more distinctly percep- 
tible. Travellers speak much of the luxury of 
the Venetian gondolas ; and the following quo- 
tation, from the second volume of Cooke's last 
Voyage to the Pacific Ocean, deserves particu- 
lar attention j not only because he was a very 
accurate observer, but also because he had no 
theory to support by the facts which he re- 
lates. 

Speaking of the inhabitants of Otaheite, he 
says : " They are no strangers to the soothing 
" effects produced by particular sorts of mo- 
cc tion, which, in some cases, seem to allay any 



ON BEAUTY. %51 

perturbation of mind with as much success as 
music. Of this I met with a remarkable in- 
c stance; for, on walking one day about Mata- 
! vai Point, where our tents were erected, I saw 
6 a man paddling in a small canoe so quickly, 
c and looking about with such eagerness on 
c each side, as to command all my attention. 
e At first I imagined that he had stolen some- 
c thing from one of the ships, and was pursued; 
c but on waiting patiently, I saw him repeat 
c his amusement. He went out from the shore 
' till he was near the place where the swell be- 
c gins to take its rise ; and, watching its first 
c motion very attentively, paddled before it, 
c with great quickness, till he found that it 
c overtook him, and had acquired sufficient 
e force to carry his canoe before it, without 
f passing underneath. He then sat motion- 
f less, and was carried along at the same swift 
c rate as the wave, till it landed him upon the 
f beach. Then he started out, emptied his 
Q canoe, and went in search of another swell. 
c 1 could not help concluding, that this man 
f felt the most supreme pleasure, while he was 

s 



258 ESSAY VIII. 

" driven so fast, and so smoothly, by the sea ; 
<e especially as, though the tents and ships were 
i€ so near, he did not seem in the least to envy, 
" or even to take notice of the crowds of his 
i( countrymen collected to view them as objects 
(e which were rare and curious. During my 
" stay, two or three of the natives came up, 
<c who seemed to share his felicity, and always 
" called out when there was an appearance of 
" a favourable swell, as he sometimes missed it, 
" by his back being turned, and looking about 
" for it. By them I understood, that this ex- 
" ercise, which is called ckorooe, was frequent 
" among them ; and they have, probably, more 
" amusements of this sort, which afford them 
" at least as much pleasure as skaiting, which 
" is the only one of ours with whose effects I 
(e could compare it." 

All these facts seem to be only particular 
cases of the general principle adopted by Mr. 
Burke in his theories of sublimity and beauty; 
namely, that as every passion of the mind pro- 
duces a certain state of the body, so on the 
other hand, this state of the body, when pro- 



ON BEAUTY. 259 

duced by any cause whatever, will be attended 
with some degree of the corresponding passion. 
He supposes also (what he conceives to be evi- 
dent, from the appearance of a person under its 
influence), that love produces a relaxation of 
the fibres ; and on the other hand, that the im- 
mediate effect of the motions which have been 
mentioned is to relax the fibres, and conse- 
quently to produce the passion of love, or 
something resembling it. Then he completes 
his theory of beauty, by representing these mo- 
tions to be analogous to the impressions made 
on the organ of sight by the beautiful qualities 
formerly enumerated ; the swift smooth motion 
corresponding to the impression made by the 
smooth surface, and by its clear and gentle co- 
lours ; and the constant and gradual variation 
of the motion, corresponding to the constant 
and gradual variation of the impression upon the 
eye, when the different parts of the surface and 
its different colours melt imperceptibly into 
each other. 

Mr. Burke's general principle appears ex- 
tremely plausible; but it may be difficult, if not 

S 2 



260 ESSAY VIII. 

impossible, to establish it by unexceptionable 
evidence or arguments. His physiological ob- 
servations on the effects of love are much more 
doubtful. And many persons will be little dis- 
posed to found any thing upon the analogy be- 
tween the motions and the visual impressions. 
Into such discussions I presume not to enter ; 
but would only state the following queries for 
the consideration of those who are in the habit 
of attending minutely to their feelings. 

In the first place, is not the effect of the vi- 
sual impressions similar to that of the motions ? 
The motions produce a delightful serenity ; and 
are we not in the other case also conscious of a 
similar feeling, in a greater or less degree ? it 
being understood, that according to the state of 
our body or mind at the time, as well as accord- 
ing to the nature of the particular objects, these 
degrees may vary between complete indiffer- 
ence, and what Cooke has called a supreme 
pleasure. 

In the second place, do not the visual im- 
pressions produce a delightful serenity, inde- 
pendently of any associated ideas, and even at 



ON BEAUTY. 261 

times when we are not conscious of any play of 
the imagination which can contribute to the 
effect ? From what has been already stated, 
this will not appear to be a singular fact in the 
human constitution. And it is probable, that 
in many instances, though certainly not in all, 
we must consider in the same light both the 
pleasures which are produced by colours, and 
the more lively emotions which are awakened 
by music unconnected with song. 

Thus, although Mr. Burke's account of the 
manner in which we are affected by the sight of 
the beautiful qualities formerly enumerated may 
at first appear too fanciful and even whimsical, 
this appearance arises chiefly or entirely from 
some of his physiological observations, which 
do not affect the real question, and from the 
manner in which he has chosen in one or two 
instances to express himself. But a candid 
reader will allow, that in the juvenile perform- 
ance of this celebrated man, we may find a 
more ingenious and more satisfactory account 
of this part of the subject than had formerly 
been given. 



262 ESSAY vm. 

The observations which have been stated on 
the effect of the beautiful qualities already men- 
tioned, are evidently applicable to motion con- 
sidered as an object of sight. The sight of 
smooth and gliding motions, which are perform- 
ed neither in straight lines, nor by sharp turns, 
but in gentle curves, produces very remarkably 
a soothing effect, similar to what has been al- 
ready described. This effect, indeed, will be 
diminished or destroyed by a certain rapidity, 
as rapidity naturally tends to rouse and alarm. 
It will be impaired also when the motion be- 
comes so slow as to weary the attention. And 
the mass or bulk of the moving body, when it is 
such as to suggest the idea of power, will im- 
press on the motion a character of sublimity, 
essentially different from beauty. But in other 
cases, as in the gentle winding of a moderate 
stream, or in the graceful gestures of the human 
body, and even of some of the lower animals, 
the delightfully soothing effect is sufficiently 
perceptible. 

Hitherto we have considered only one class 
of beautiful qualities. In most cases, however, 



ON BEAUTY. 263 

in which we feel their influence, some other 
beautiful qualities are also exhibited, or some 
other soothing ideas suggested, that greatly di- 
versify and improve their effect. In particular, 
the human countenance derives by far the 
greatest part of its beauty from expression, from 
expression of the feelings and the character. 
But we do not give the name of beautiful to the 
expression of the sterner qualities of a firm, per- 
severing, ardent, bold, independent, and uncon- 
querable spirit. In fact, however we may re- 
spect or admire these sublimer qualities, or 
whatever effect they may have, when united to 
the gentler virtues, yet, when contemplated by 
themselves, they are certainly very far from 
soothing objects. On the other hand, we give, 
indiscriminately, the name of beautiful, or love- 
ly, to the expression of those qualities, which 
it is naturally soothing to contemplate; sere- 
nity, resignation, gentleness, tenderness, and 
affection. 

If we attend to what we feel at the sight 
of a countenance expressive of these dispo- 
sitions, our state of mind will appear to be 



264 ESSAY VIII. 

partly the effect of sympathy, and partly of 
love. 

Sympathy has been considered by several 
writers, particularly by Mr. Burke in his In- 
quiry into the Sublime and Beautiful, and by 
Mr. Smith, in his Theory of Moral Sentiments. 
For our purpose it is sufficient to describe it 
as that remarkable part of our constitution, by 
which we " rejoice with them that rejoice, and 
" weep with them that weep -" and by which, 
in general, our imagination transports us into 
the situation of our fellow-creatures, and gives 
us a participation of their pains and pleasures, 
of their sentiments and emotions. Hence the 
sight of a countenance characterized by the 
milder virtues will naturally communicate some 
degree of the tranquillity and sweet affections 
that seem to bless the soul which inspires its 
features. 

Beside the effect of sympathy, these milder 
virtues are the natural objects of love. And, as 
the love of the milder virtues is in itself ex- 
tremely soothing, it is obvious that this affec- 
tion, and the sympathy produced by the sight 



ON BEAUTY. %65 

of a countenance in which these amiable dis- 
positions are conspicuous, will form together 
a state of mind so much characterized by a 
delightful serenity and languor (the predomi- 
nant feelings which accompany the sight of 
external beauty), that it is natural to transfer 
the name of beautiful, not only to such an ex- 
pression of countenance, but also to the mental 
qualities themselves. 

Thus we see how it happens, that beauty has 
been ascribed to virtue. In some of its aspects, 
indeed, virtue is venerable, and even awful ; as 
when it is exerted in deeds of heroic valour, 
in the sterner acts of justice, or in the duties 
of a painful self-denial. But it resumes its 
native beauty, when it appears in the attitude 
of meekness, humility, or resignation, or is 
employed in the kind offices of courtesy, hu- 
manity, or affection. And even its severer 
aspects are softened to a penetrating eye by 
more soothing features. Our admiration of 
the heroic valour of the virtuous is blended 
with our love of the generous sentiments that 
inspire it. The sterner acts of justice are re- 



^66 ESSAY VIII. 

quisite for the safety and tranquillity of the 
innocent. And the cruel pains of self-denial 
are the most unequivocal proofs of resignation 
to Heaven, and are gradually recompensed by 
peace and hope. 

In like manner we transfer the name of 
beautiful to all objects associated in our ima- 
gination with ideas, which sooth us into a 
pleasing state of tranquillity and languor ; to all 
those scenes, for example, which appear to be 
the habitations of peace and innocence and 
love, and of minds unvexed by the turbulent 
and destructive passions. Such are the groves, 
which have not the awfulness of the forest, but 
which are enlivened by the warbling of birds, 
happy in each other, and in the care of their 
offspring. Such are the rivulets, which do not, 
like the cataract, suggest the ideas of violence 
and destruction, but along whose green and 
shady banks we find a cool retreat from the 
noon-day sun, while their murmurs invite us to 
repose, far from the fatigues and the vexations 
of the world. 

Associations of this kind will even confer 



ON BEAUTY. 26? : 

beauty upon objects, which otherwise assume 
a very different aspect. The mountain, in its 
own nature, is sublime and awful; but when 
the poet speaks of 

•' All that the mountain's shelt'ring bosom shields/'* 

he adorns it with the charms of beauty, by 
throwing round it the ideas of shelter and se- 
curity. The abode of our childhood and 
youth, although it should be such as to appear 
indifferent, or dull, or even dreary to a stranger, 
may still be lovely in our own eyes, from the 
fond recollection of early endearments. 

It is almost unnecessary to observe, that a 
delightful serenity and languor may be pro- 
duced by music. Indeed of all the fine arts 
there is none, which, in some constitutions at 
least, has a more direct and powerful influence 
in soothing even a troubled mind. And ac- 
cording as it is more or less adapted to this 
effect, it appears more or less entitled to the 

* Beattie's Minstrel. 



^6S ESSAY VIII. 

name of beautiful. It may be impossible to 
ascertain in what manner such an effect can 
be produced by any sounds, or combination of 
sounds, just as it may be impossible to ascer- 
tain how it can be produced by subjecting the 
t)ody to particular motions, or by exposing the 
eye to particular impressions. But it is evi- 
dent, that objects which produce similar effects 
of so remarkable a kind, will naturally be 
classed under one common appellation. 

The effect of the objects, which have been 
hitherto considered, is directly opposite to the 
irritation of violent, or painful, or contending 
passions. But we may likewise be disturbed 
by the painful exertions or perplexity of the 
understanding; and objects that produce the 
contrary state of mind form a distinct and re- 
markable class of the beautiful. 

Now the province of the understanding is to 
trace the relations or connexions of objects. 
And according as these relations are more 
striking in themselves, and according as the 
objects are presented and arranged in such a 



ON BEAUTY. ^69 

manner as to render these relations more con- 
spicuous, the understanding will employ itself 
with the greater facility. 

It soon however becomes irksome, and even 
painful, when we endeavour to confine our 
attention to a set of objects, which are nearly 
uniform. This indeed may not always be the 
case when our affections are deeply interested : 
as a lover does not soon grow weary of con- 
templating the face of his mistress. But other- 
wise, and in so far as the intellectual powers 
are concerned, a certain degree of variety, 
either in the objects themselves, or in their 
relations and connexions, is requisite, not only 
for the agreeable entertainment, but even for 
the tranquillity of the mind. 

On the other hand, when in any particular 
subject of our contemplation the variety is 
carried too far, either we become perplexed, 
or a painful exertion is required to apprehend 
it distinctly. 

But however we may be distressed by per- 
plexity, or by intense application, yet the mind 
is seldom, if ever, so much fatigued, as to find 



2170 ESSAY VIII. 

satisfaction in absolute repose. On the "con- 
trary, while we are awake at least, it is never 
wholly at rest ; and our situation is always ex- 
tremely irksome, when we can find neither any 
external object, nor any of our own thoughts 
sufficient to engage our attention. But we may 
be preserved in tranquillity, and even refreshed, 
in weariness and pain of mind, that is to say, 
we may be soothed in a very considerable 
degree, by variety and facility in the exertion 
of our intellectual powers. 

Hence we are naturally soothed with any set 
of objects which have striking relations or con- 
nexions with each other, and which are pre- 
sented and arranged in such a manner as to 
render these relations conspicuous ; provided 
that there be a certain degree of variety either 
in the objects themselves, or in their mutual 
connexions : and hence every exhibition of 
this kind will of course receive the name of 
beautiful. 

Here one circumstance deserves to be par- 
ticularly noticed; namely, the effect of such 
an order, as we have mentioned, in producing 



DN BEAUTY, 271 

facility and distinctness both of apprehension 
and of recollection. It is well known, that re- 
collection depends on the association of ideas ; 
that ideas are associated in the mind by their 
mutual relations ; and that the associations are 
strong and permanent, according as the re- 
lations are striking. Hence when objects are 
arranged according to the more striking re- 
lations, such as those of resemblance, or of 
contrast, or of cause and effect, or of co- 
operation to a particular purpose, we are won- 
derfully facilitated in the distinct recollection of 
the whole assemblage. But the recollection of 
what is absent, both presupposes, and is also 
a much more difficult operation, than the ap- 
prehension of the same thing actually exhibited. 
It is evident, therefore, that arrangement ac- 
cording to the more striking relations will 
enable us to command with ease a distinct 
view, in all its parts and connexions, of a 
much more complicated and diversified as- 
semblage, than we could make ourselves mas- 
ters of, without the greatest difficulty, if it 
were presented in a less regular form, We 



27$ ' ESSAY VIII. 

carraot wonder then, that the perception of 
order should be accompanied with so agree- 
able and soothing a sensation. 

The soothing effect, however, may be con- 
siderably impaired, when any violent contrast 
is forced upon our notice; as by placing con- 
tiguous, or by directly confronting with each 
other, very lively and very mournful objects; 
or very glaring and very mild-coloured; or 
very dignified and very humble ; or very great 
and very little. Objects of such opposite qua- 
lities may indeed have an agreeable effect, 
when they are introduced into the same group, 
and even when they are placed contiguous or 
in direct opposition ; but the sensation of these 
abrupt transitions, whatever sublimity, or vi- 
vacity, or other attractions they may possess, 
is by no means similar to the feelings produced 
by what we call beautiful in the more appro- 
priate sense of the word. And, accordingly, 
although an exhibition, in which transitions 
of this kind were remarkable, might still be 
soothing, and, consequently, might still have 
beauty ascribed to it, yet we should be dis- 



ON BEAUTY. %/3 

posed to qualify the term with some epithet, 
as sublime, or bold, or lively, according as 
the contrasts might affect us. It will be un- 
derstood, however, that objects of very opposite 
qualities may be introduced into the same 
group, without disturbing the beauty, if they 
are only so placed as not to render the violent 
contrast conspicuous, and consequently so as 
not to produce an abrupt transition. 

But abrupt transitions may be produced, not 
merely by too violent contrasts, but also by the 
introduction of heterogeneous objects. Thus a 
beautiful arrangement may be formed, either 
with china vases, or with specimens of ore; 
yet it will be far from having a good effect, to 
intermingle the two collections, even although 
we might still exhibit both a copious and un- 
perplexed variety of similar objects similarly 
situated. 

Upon the whole, this very comprehensive 
species, which may be called the beauty of or- 
der, consists in the exhibition and arrangement 
of objects according to the more striking rela- 
tions, so as to render these relations sufficiently 

T 



£74 ESSAY VIII. 

conspicuous, and to produce a sufficient variety 5 
but without perplexity, and without abrupt 
transitions. 

These characteristics are so remarkable and 
extensive, that the celebrated Doctor Hutche- 
son of Glasgow, seems, in a great measure, to 
have confined his attention to this part of the 
subject, in his general Theory of Beauty. For, 
with the single exception of the species which 
he characterizes by the indication of virtuous 
dispositions, he considers uniformity in variety 
as the universal constituent of what he calls 
original or absolute beauty, comprehending, 
under this term, every other kind of beauty, 
but that which he supposes to result from imi- 
tation. Now, uniformity in variety consists 
only in resemblance, or in some common pro- 
perty, displayed among objects which are other- 
wise diversified ; and consequently though it is 
not fully equivalent to the description which 
has just been given, in a great measure coin- 
cides with it. 

It is not fully equivalent: for, in the first 
place, it does not imply the absence of abrupt 



ON BEAUTY. %75 

transition ; and yet abrupt transition differs es- 
sentially from the beautiful. In the second 
place, there may be a beautiful exhibition of 
objects, arranged according to very striking 
relations, where yet there will be no remarkable 
uniformity in variety. Thus we may have a 
lively perception of beauty from the description 
of a machine, when the parts are represented 
and introduced to our notice in such a manner, 
as to render their general co-operation to the 
ultimate effect conspicuous and easily traced ; 
and yet no two of the parts may have any re- 
semblance or common property so remarkable 
as to engage our attention. 

It is to be regretted also, that this author 
contented himself with ascribing the pleasure, 
which we receive from beauty, to a peculiar 
sense, distinct from the other faculties of the 
human mind, and did not direct his great ta- 
lents to consider how far this pleasure results 
from the known principles of our nature, or 
how far it is similar to sensations, which we 
experience upon other occasions. 

Whatever theory may be adopted, the beauty 
T 2 



^76 ESSAY VIII. 

of order well deserves the attention both of phi- 
losophers and artists, as it produces very re- 
markable effects, even when it is not accompa- 
nied by any other beauty ; and as it extends its 
influence from the most trifling to the most 
important subjects. 

Doctor Hutcheson considers the regular 
figures of Geometry, or those which have all 
their sides and all their angles equal, as the 
simplest form in which it appears, and accord- 
ingly has chosen them as the first illustration of 
his doctrine.* But he does not seem to have 
placed them precisely in the proper point of 
view ; for he considers the variety to be in pro- 
portion to the number of sides, whereas it is 
evident, that variety consists not in number 
only, but in number and dissimilarity. It may 
be proper therefore to consider more particu- 
larly what it is that constitutes the variety 
exhibited by any of the regular figures, and" 
how these figures come to differ from each 
other in beauty. 

* Inquiry into the Original of our Ideas of Beauty and 
Virtue, Treatise I, Section II, Article III. 



ON BEAUTY. 277 

Here a distinction must be made between the 
figures which have an even, and those which have 
an odd number of sides. Regular figures of the 
first kind, when the position of the centre is not 
made conspicuous, exhibit five remarkable rela- 
tions of their parts to each other 5 namely, the 
equality of the sides, the equality of the angles, 
the parallelism of the opposite sides, and the 
equality and parallelism of the straight lines, 
which the eye naturally traces between the ex- 
tremities of the opposite sides. And the dissimi- 
larity either of these relations, or of the objects 
between which they subsist, constitutes the whole 
variety exhibited to the eye by any given regular 
figure of an even number of sides, at least when 
the position of the centre is not conspicuous. In 
the square, however, the last two relations are 
confounded with the equality and parallelism of 
the sides ; so that the square has considerably 
less variety than the other figures of this class ; 
and thus we see one reason why the hexagon 
and the octagon should surpass it in beauty. 

If we now consider the regular figures with 
an odd number of sides, we are struck only with 



273 ESSAY VIIL 

the equality of the sides and angles: all the 
three other relations, which take place in the 
former class, are completely wanting ; and the 
perpendicular situation of the angles over the 
middle points of the opposite sides, a relation 
which, before actual trial, might be supposed to 
supply the want of parallel sides, will not be 
found sufficiently conspicuous to produce a con- 
siderable effect. Accordingly these figures, if 
they have any pretensions to beauty, are cer- 
tainly far inferior to the former class ; and per- 
haps to most eyes they are rather disagreeable 
than otherwise. 

The foregoing observations, however, are 
scarcely applicable to figures of a greater num- 
ber of sides than eleven or twelve. For when 
the number is increased beyond a certain de- 
gree, the sides must become so small, or else 
the opposite sides must become so distant, that 
in either case the equality and parallelism of 
these sides will cease to be conspicuous, as well 
as the equality and parallelism of the lines which 
join their extremities. Thus the figures of an 
even number of sides will be reduced pretty 



ON BEAUTY. 279 

nearly to the same footing with those of an odd 
number; and neither of them will have any 
perceptible beauty, except that which arises 
from the gentleness of their curvature, and 
which is very different from the subject of our 
present consideration. 

Hitherto we have considered the figures as 
consisting only of equal sides, and equal angles. 
But it deserves to be remarked, that their beauty 
is much increased, when the place of the centre 
is rendered conspicuous ; or when the observer 
is stationed there. By this means there is brought 
into view a striking relation, not only of the 
sides, but also of the angles, both to the centre 
and to each other ; namely, the equality of their 
distances from the centre. And thus, likewise, 
a new set of parts make their appearance; for 
the straight lines, which the eye naturally traces 
between the centre and each of the angles, di- 
vide the area of the figure into triangles, which 
are both similar and equal to each other. These 
observations, with regard to the centre, are ap- 
plicable, whether the number of sides be small 
or great, odd or even. But when their num- 



280 ESSAY VIII. 

ber is even, and does not exceed ten or twelve, 
we immediately perceive a striking relation be- 
tween every two opposite angles and the centre, 
these three points being evidently in one straight 
line ; and a similar connexion also discovers it- 
self between the centre and the middle points of 
every two opposite sides. 

In comparing the regular figures with each 
other, the octagon is acknowledged to be the 
most beautiful ; a preference which is perfectly 
agreeable to the foregoing principles. For we 
have seen how it should be superior tq the 
figures with an odd number of sides ; and also 
to the square. In fact, the figure of six, and 
the figure of ten equal sides, are the only ones 
which can be compared to it. But it is more 
beautiful than the former, on account of its 
gentler curvature; and it has the parallelism of 
the opposite sides more conspicuous than in the 
latter, and still more so than in the higher po- 
lygons. 

In the works and arrangements of art, we 
find more or less of the beauty of order* 
wherever it can be introduced without too great 



ON BEAUTY. 281 

a sacrifice of convenience or utility ; and we are 
sensibly displeased, even upon trifling and ordi- 
nary occasions, when we see it neglected by 
the careless or the stupid. Thus even in placing 
common furniture round the walls of a common 
room, we could not bear to see all the tables set 
by themselves, and then all the chairs one after 
another, without interruption : but although we 
could expect to gain nothing in point of conve- 
nience, we would contrive to mix the tables 
with the chairs, so as to produce some variety 
of groups ; and to arrange the whole in such a 
manner, that the correspondence between the 
different groups, as well as between the different 
parts of each of them, might be sufficiently ob- 
vious. It is upon the same principle that we 
endeavour, as far as circumstances will permit, 
to arrange the pieces in every collection what- 
ever ; as the plate and glasses on a sideboard, 
the china in a cupboard, the ornaments on a 
chimney piece, and the articles in the drawers 
and shelves of a museum. And where an ele- 
gant arrangement is evidently attainable, the 
beauty of the different pieces considered sepa- 



282 ESSAY VIII. 

rately will not atone for the ugliness of confusion. 

The productions of nature, as they strike the 
eye, exhibit chiefly that species of beauty which 
was first considered. Yet in almost all the 
animal, and in a great proportion of the vege- 
table forms, we are sensible of the beauty which 
results from the disposition of the parts, and 
this sometimes even in cases where we find no 
other beauty, in the more appropriate meaning 
of the word. 

Thus a tree in winter, though it is deprived 
of its foliage, and though it has neither a fine 
colour, nor a smooth bark, nor a gently waving 
form, may still be beautiful. This, however, 
will depend upon circumstances. For on the 
one hand, we find no such pretensions in a 
thorn hedge stripped of its leaves, where the 
branches are so closely huddled up, as to have 
only the appearance of unconnected sticks. 
Nor, on the other hand, do we find any charms 
in a bare tree, when the branches from the 
stem are very inconsiderable both in number 
and size, with little resemblance to each other, 
irregularly placed, most of them perhaps 



ON BEAUTY. 283 

upon one side of the stem, inclined to it in very 
different, perhaps opposite angles, and sending 
out only a few puny twigs, irregularly scattered. 
But a very different effect is produced, when 
the expansion and general figure of the tree give 
us the idea of being able to trace with ease a 
long progress of ramification, at once diversi- 
fied, regular, and gradual ; diversified copiously 
by the number, and various sizes and various 
dispositions of the branches; regular, in the 
general similarity of those which are similarly 
situated ; while the branches gradually diminish 
in size according to their more elevated situa- 
tion, or according to their more remote con- 
nexion with the parent stem. 

But if, even in the most superficial and cur- 
sory survey of external nature, we meet with 
various examples of the beauty of order, these 
examples multiply and increase in importance 
when the view is enlarged, and nature more ac- 
curately and skilfully examined. And the same 
principles, which prompt and direct us in ar- 
ranging the most trifling ornaments, have also 
excited men of science, with infinite labour and 



284 ESSAt VIII. 

ingenuity, and with the happiest effects both 
for the communication and the application of 
knowledge, to detect, and bring to light, and 
reduce to the elegance of system, the various 
resemblances and correspondences, which both 
in the natural and moral world conceal them- 
selves from the curiosity of common inquirers. 
This subject merits a particular illustration. 

The earliest observers were led by the more 
obvious resemblances among the productions of 
the earth to the primary classifications of na- 
tural history. But the more extensive informa- 
tion, and minuter attention of their successors, 
have produced that arrangement of divisions and 
subdivisions, where (amidst the great diversity 
of species, and the infinite variety of individual 
objects) the regular distribution and gradual ar- 
rangement of the classes give a peculiar charm 
to this popular study. 

Again ; it is the great business of philosophy 
to investigate the laws of nature ; and these laws 
consist in the correspondences which take place, 
either between different parts of the same ope- 
ration of nature, or between different operations 



ON BEAUTY. 285 

compared with each other. Now although the 
discovery of these laws may in many cases 
require the utmost efforts of human genius, and 
though it may even be difficult to understand 
the evidence on which they are established, yet 
the correspondences which they exhibit are 
often simple enough to be apprehended with 
facility by ordinary capacities, and to afford 
striking examples of the beauty of order. 

Thus in the state of science when Galileo 
lived, it required the extraordinary abilities of 
that great man to discover the law, which regu- 
lates the descent of falling bodies. Yet the law 
itself may be distinctly apprehended by any 
person who knows what is meant by the series 
of odd numbers, 1, 3, 5, 7, &c. ; for it is simply 
what follows. Let a body be dropped from a 
height, and suppose it to be so heavy, that the 
resistance of the air will produce no sensible re- 
tardation. Divide the whole time of its de- 
scent into any number of equal portions, which 
we shall call moments; and let the body fall 
from rest through one inch (or whatever the 
space may be) during the first moment. Then 



286 ESSAY VIII. 

it will fall through three inches during the se- 
cond moment, through five inches during the 
third, through seven during the fourth, and so 
on ; the number of inches described during the 
first, second, third, and fourth moments, being 
respectively equal to the first, second, third, and 
fourth odd numbers ; and in general the num- 
ber of inches described during each successive 
moment being equal to the odd number which 
corresponds to it in order. Now this law may 
be distinctly apprehended by any person, who 
chooses to attend to it; and any person who 
apprehends it, will be sensibly soothed in con- 
templating the relation between the spaces de- 
scribed during the successive moments, a rela- 
tion abundantly striking and continually varying; 
but varying without perplexity, and by gradual 
transitions. 

We have more brilliant examples in Kepler's 
celebrated laws of the planetary motions. The 
Greek astronomers had supposed, that all the 
motions in the heavens were uniform and circu- 
lar y but Kepler perceived, that in the case of 
the planets, neither , of these suppositions was 



ON BEAUTY. 28? 

consistent with the appearances, when accurate- 
ly observed. The orbit, in which a planet re- 
volves round the sun, is not a circle, but an 
oval of that kind, which mathematicians have 
called the ellipse, having the sun not in its 
centre, but in one of the two. points called the 
foci. Moreover, the velocity of the planet is 
continually varying, yet hy no means in the 
same proportion as its distance from the sun; 
and it was not easy to discover any general re- 
lation between the spaces through which it 
moves in equal times. Kepler, however, with 
admirable sagacity, considering the subject from 
another point of view, perceived amidst the ap- 
parent confusion a very remarkable and unex- 
pected regularity. Let us conceive the planet 
to be pierced through its centre by a wire of in- 
definite length, along which it can move freely 
like a bead; and that one end of the wire is 
placed in the centre of the sun. As the planet 
revolves, the wire will be carried round with it, 
so that in the course of a revolution that part of 
the wire which is terminated by the centres of 
the sun and planet will sweep over the. whole 



288 ESSAY VIIL 

area of the elliptical orbit. And Kepler's dis- 
covery was this; that those portions of the area 
are equal to each other, over which the wire 
sweeps in equal times. 

In this case, as also in Galileo's law of falling 
bodies, we have an example of the different 
parts of the same operation so exhibited and 
arranged, as to render their connexion distinct 
and conspicuous. Connexions not less curious 
and unexpected have been discovered, when 
different operations were compared with each 
other. It was well known, for instance, that 
the periodic times of the different planets, or 
the times, which they severally employ in one 
complete revolution round the sun, are shorter 
in the planets which are nearer the sun, than 
in those which are more remote. But it was 
obvious to every person, who knew the rule of 
three, that the periodic times of no two planets 
were in the same proportion as either their 
longest, or shortest, or medium distances from 
the sun. Yet as that great luminary appeared 
to be the common regulator of their movements, 
or as at least he had a similar position in all 



ON BEAUTY. 289 

their orbits, it was natural to suppose, that the 
times were in some way or other connected with 
the distances. In fact, there is a very intimate 
and even striking connexion between them, 
although its discovery required the indefatigable 
industry of Kepler. The connexion is well 
known to be this ; that the squares of the num- 
bers expressing the periodic times, are in the 
same proportion as the cubes of the numbers 
expressing the medium distances. Now what- 
ever labour the discovery may have cost, yet 
it may readily be understood by any one, who 
knows only what is meant by proportion in 
the rule of three, and by the squares and cubes 
of numbers. And combining this law with 
that which has just been mentioned, of the 
equality of the areas described in equal times, 
we rest with delight in this exhibition, which, 
instead of the disorder that seems at first sight 
to prevail in the planetary system, displays so 
regular an arrangement, amidst all the variety in 
the position and movement of its parts. 

The principles of beauty will be still farther 
illustrated, if we attend to the difference between 

u 



290 ESSAY VIII. 

Kepler's and Newton's discoveries. Kepler 
confined his attention to the higher regions ; 
but Newton's bolder eye " glanced from 
" Heaven to Earth, from Earth to Hea- 
% ven,"* and with a wonderful combination of 
patience, skill, and genius, this great philoso- 
pher discovered at last, that the motions of the 
moon, of the planets, and of the heavy bodies 
around us, are all regulated by the same laws ; 
that if human power or art could throw for- 
ward a cannon-ball with a certain velocity, and 
if the resistance of the air were destroyed, the 
ball, while it tended downward by its weight, 
would still be kept aloof by its projectile ve- 
locity, and continue, as an humbler satellite, 
to revolve round the Earth - y that if stones were 
substituted for the bodies of the planetary sys- 
tem, that is to say, if these bodies were anni- 
hilated, and if stones were once for all thrown 
forward in their places, in their directions, and 
with their velocities, the stones would continue 
to revolve with the same regularity. 

How shall we characterize this view of the 
universe ? It is unexpected ; it is astonishing -> 

* Shakspeare. 



ON BEAUTY. 291 

and whether we consider the genius of Newton, 
or the power displayed in originating and regu- 
lating the rapid motions of those stupendous 
bodies, it is singularly sublime. But the abrupt 
transition from the stones of the ground to the 
stars of Heaven, produces a state of mind very 
different from the soothing tranquillity which 
is essential to beauty. 

On the other hand, in Kepler's exhibition of 
the planetary movements, all is not only regu- 
lar but homogeneous; and while we are reliev- 
ed by variety, we are not agitated by any vio- 
lent disproportion either in the nature or the 
grandeur of the objects. And accordingly, it 
is only when he confines his attention to the 
great bodies of the universe, that Newton 
ascribes beauty to the system, and such a 
beauty as he justly considers to be a mark of 
its divine original. In his own impressive 
words; " Elegantissima haecce solis, planeta- 
" rum, et cometarum compages, non nisi con- 
" silio et dominio entis intelligent et potentis 
" oriri potuit."* 

*' Newtoni Principia, Lib. 3. Scholium generale. 
U % 



292 ESSAY VIII. 

In general, it is the business of philosophy to 
arrange the objects both of the natural and mo- 
ral world, and also the ideas of the human 
mind, according to their more important re- 
lations.— Hence we are soothed with the ele- 
gance of order, instead of the irregular, be- 
wildering medley, in which those objects and 
ideas are actually exhibited by nature, or in 
which they appear to us from our imperfect 
comprehension. And the only things which 
can efface the beauty of these arrangements, 
are too great intricacy, and too great abrupt- 
ness of transition. 

At the same time, it is not to be understood, 
that intricacy and abrupt transition may not to 
a certain degree be introduced with propriety, 
even in those cases where the exhibition of 
beauty is the principal design. On the con- 
trary, beauty cloys by itself, and we are glad 
when it is qualified by somewhat of a less re- 
gular or more complicated character. This 
rouses and stimulates, and thereby counteracts 
the cloying effect, and renders us more sen- 
sible to the delight of soothing impressions. 



ON BEAUTY. 293 

Many persons will recollect how much they 
have been charmed with the first representation 
which is usually given of the planetary system : 
the sun immovable in the centre ; the planets 
revolving uniformly round him in circles, at 
different distances, in different times, and with 
different velocities, but the velocities so pro- 
portioned, that the periodic times have all the 
same connexion, and a very remarkable one, 
with the respective distances of the planets 
from the sun. 

Here certainly is a beautiful picture ; but it 
is greatly enlivened, without losing its beauty, 
by the transitions, the complications, and even 
the seeming irregularities, which discover them- 
selves on a nearer inspection, or which must 
result from the tendencies of the heavenly bo- 
dies to each other. The sun, in consequence 
of his tendency to each of the planets, is in a 
constant but gentle agitation ; the planets re- 
volve in ellipses, with velocities continually 
varying, but the velocity of every planet va- 
rying in such a manner as to produce an equable 
description of the area of its orbit y the planets 



294 ESSAY VIII. 

all move in different planes, and cross the plane 
of the Earth's orbit in different quarters of the 
Heavens ; nor do they follow the precise path 
to which the sun would confine them, but 
show their respect for each other by a mutual 
approach as they pass. But while we are en- 
gaged with the heavenly bodies, which move in 
orbits not differing greatly from circles, and in 
planes not diverging beyond the limits of the 
zodiac, our contemplation is interrupted and 
varied by the arrival of those unexpected vi- 
sitants, the comets; which revolve indeed by 
the same general laws, but which move in 
planes diverging to all the quarters of the 
heavens, and which are drawn to the neigh- 
bourhood of the sun from regions far beyond 
the sphere of the Georgium Sid us itself, and 
return through their long and narrow orbits to 
those deep recesses of the void, where they 
linger for years and even for ages, still in- 
fluenced, but scarcely influericed, by the al- 
most extinguished powers of the solar at- 
traction. 

Now however difficult or impossible it may 



ON BEAUTY. 295 

be to calculate minutely all the particulars of 
the system, yet it is not so difficult to form 
a general idea of its principal movements. And 
when once we are able, without a painful ex- 
ertion, to trace in some measure the regularity 
which prevails in its intricacies, the resem- 
blances which harmonize its diversities, and the 
connexion of such various effects with one 
single cause, we feel how much superior to 
what the orrery represents or suggests is the 
exhibition, which now rises in the imagination, 
and with how great propriety Sir Isaac New- 
ton has described it, as elegant in the highest 
degree. 

In general, the beauty of order is improved 
and rendered more engaging by intricacy and 
by abrupt transitions, when the intricacy is 
not so great as to require a painful exertion 
in tracing the relations of the parts, nor the 
transitions so violent as to shock us with dis- 
cordant feelings. And in like manner every 
kind of beauty becomes more alluring by in- 
termixing qualities of an animating and even of 
an irritating nature, not so as to destroy the 



296 ESSAY VIIL 

pleasing serenity and languor which are the 
characteristical effects, but only to prevent 
them from degenerating into satiety or wea- 
riness, and also, by rousing the attention, to 
render us more susceptible of their delights. 

A smooth-flowing stream, for example, when 
other circumstances are the same, is certainly 
more beautiful than one whose course is 
checked and disturbed, and its waters dashed 
and fretted among stones and rocks. Yet a 
stream of this latter kind, even when it is far 
from aspiring to sublimity, may add a wonder- 
ful charm to a beautiful landscape. And it is 
evident, that as we are soothed and lulled by 
smoothness, gentle variation, and regularity, 
so we are roused and even irritated by rough- 
ness, abruptness, and intricacy. So likewise, 
although there is no expression of countenance 
so beautiful in itself as that of serenity and 
tenderness ; yet it is not half so engaging in its 
simple state, as when it is lighted up with 
vivacity, or ennobled by dignity, or even as 
when we perceive through all the predominant 
mildness, that the temper is irritable to a 



ON BEAUTY. 297 

certain degree. Nature in her loveliest produc- 
tions has not omitted those ornaments, which 
are required as the seasoners of beauty. We see 
it obviously in trees, and in all the most elegant 
vegetables. It is extremely remarkable in the 
tufts, the crests, and the ruffs which diversify 
the smooth plumage of the finest birds. And 
every one must have felt how much the allure- 
ments of female beauty are increased by the eye- 
lashes, and eyebrows, and irregular ringlets. 

If it be thought singular, that the charms of 
beauty should be increased by circumstances 
which are the reverse of beautiful, we may refer 
to a case which is analogous in the sense of taste. 
A sweet or luscious taste quickly satiates and 
cloys of itself, but is rendered agreeably delici- 
ous when tempered by pungency, acidity, or 
bitterness. In like manner, beauty becomes far 
more engaging by a certain intermixture of the 
irritating qualities, as roughness, abrupt varia- 
tion, intricacy, and disorder. To these qualities 
Mr. Uvedale Price has appropriated the name 
of picturesque.* Whether the picturesque in 

* Essay' on the Picturesque and Beautiful. 



298 ESSAY VIII. 

this sense of the word deserve to be cultivated 
or introduced on its own account into any of 
the fine arts, it is not our present business to 
consider. But it is well known (as we have al- 
ready seen in a former essay), that these quali- 
ties are highly congenial to the sublime. And 
Mr. Price in his ingenious treatise has shown, 
by various examples, how much a certain de- 
gree of them contributes to the improvement of 
beauty. 

It is obvious that beauty, in one form or other, 
is frequently the source of great delight in lite- 
rary compositions, as well as in all the fine arts. 
It is, indeed, only certain compositions which 
admit the description of beautiful objects. But 
however destitute of charms the subject may be 
in itself, even though it should be the author's 
design to instruct us in the dry and stern sci- 
ences of law, metaphysics, or mathematics, he 
should never forget to adorn his work with ele- 
gance of method. And according to the prin- 
ciples already stated, this consists in such a re- 
presentation and arrangement of the subject, as 
may serve to render the important relations be- 



ON BEAUTY. 299 

tween the different parts sufficiently conspicu- 
ous j and, while as great a variety is introduced 
as may be consistent with the purpose of the 
work, to prevent both perplexity and too abrupt 
transitions. Now the less entertaining or the 
more, difficult the subject is in itself, it is the 
more proper to relieve the reader by every con- 
trivance which does not obstruct the main de- 
sign. And it has already been observed, that 
the beauty of order is not only highly agree- 
able, but also contributes greatly to produce a 
distinct apprehension, and a lively and ready 
recollection of the work in all its different parts, 
an object which ought certainly to be studied 
by every author, and more particularly when 
the design is instruction. 

But when the subject is difficult in itself, it 
would be absurd to introduce artificial intricacy * 
or to puzzle without necessity by abrupt transi- 
tions. On the contrary, such an arrangement 
ought, as far as possible, to be studied, that each 
division of the work may naturally introduce 
what follows it, and that the connexion between 
all the different divisions as we go along may be 



300 ESSAY VIII. 

kept distinctly and steadily in view. The case 
is different where the subject is easy, and more 
especially where amusement is intended. Thus, 
in that part of fictitious histories or dramatic re- 
presentations which unravels the plot, and where 
we gradually discover how the several characters 
and incidents contribute to the final result, our 
gratification is much enlivened by the previous 
uncertainty and confusion. The confusion, in- 
deed, may easily be carried too far, as in some 
of the older romances. But it is managed by 
Fielding with the hand of a master, in the beau- 
tiful mechanism of the fable and arrangement of 
the incidents, which delight us so much in the 
history of a Foundling. 

With regard to the representation of beautiful 
objects, it is much to be regretted, that it has so 
often been employed, and even by the most emi- 
nent authors, to inflame desires, which, without 
the aid of artificial incentives, are abundantly 
ardent and importunate of themselves. This, in- 
deed, is only what might be expected from 
writers of profligate characters, or in grosser 
times. But we are surprised at the frequent and 



ON BEAUTY. 301 

laboured indelicacies of Fielding; and we are 
still more mortified, when men of such piety as 
Tasso and Milton, and even in books professedly- 
religious, exert the highest powers of composi- 
tion for a purpose so ignoble and superfluous. 
Yet these very authors have shown in other 
passages how much they could delight us by the 
description both of personal beauty and of the 
tenderest love, without forcing on our attention 
what any man would be chastised for introduc- 
ing into general conversation, and what cannot 
be less improper in books designed for general 
entertainment. 

Indeed it is obvious, that the beautiful may be 
introduced into composition with the happiest 
effect, and yet without the smallest violation of 
good manners. We have seen in the foregoing 
essays how well it may be employed to soften 
the painful emotions, and also to heighten the 
pathetic and the tender. It may also become 
itself the principal object in certain composi- 
tions. The more soothing charms of nature, 
the more soothing views of life, are the great 
sources of our pleasure in many descriptive and 



302 ESSAY VIII. 

pastoral poems. And such compositions are 
capable of no small variety. Both in the natural 
and moral world, beauty is exhibited in a great 
diversity of forms, and imagination can enlarge 
and improve the sphere of observation. Besides, 
the beautiful admits, in many different ways, of 
being rendered interesting by combinations of 
terror and sorrow ; or of being enlivened by its 
natural association with the gay and joyful, or 
of being ennobled by its union with the virtuous 
or the sublime. 

Nor ought those compositions in which the 
beautiful predominates, to be regarded as of 
little importance. They afford a sweet relaxa- . 
tion from our cares and fatigues, when we are 
too much worn out to endure the more violent 
emotions. They insensibly calm the " perturbed 
" spirit y or, in the language of Thomson, 

" Sooth every gust of passion into peace, 

" All but the swellings of the soften'd heart, 

" That waken, not disturb, the tranquil mind ."* 

They bring before us this remarkable and 
affecting indication of the divine goodness, that 

* Thomson's Spring. 



ON BEAUTY. 303 

even amidst the wreck of creation, and the trials 
of a probationary state, unspeakable care is dis- 
played, not only in providing for our wants, but 
likewise in adorning all nature for our delight. 
And they will afford us the highest consolation, 
as well as contribute to the advancement of our 
best concerns, if, amidst the confusion and de- 
formities, the vices and distresses, which so often 
disfigure the present scene, they carry forward 
our view to that period, when the works of God 
shall be restored to their primeval beauty, and 
the reign of order and felicity return. 



ESSAY IX. 

©N THE LUDICROUS. 

Various theories of the ludicrous or laugh- 
able have been proposed by Aristotle and suc- 
ceeding philosophers ; but I know of none which 
appears to be so well founded as Dr. Hutche- 
son's, who maintains, in his Reflections on Laugh- 
ter, that the ludicrous consists in the contrast of 
dignity and meanness, whether the dignity and 
meanness reside both in the same object, or in 
different objects which are nearly related to each 
other. It will be understood, however, that we 
are not always sensible of the ludicrous in these 
cases, unless there be somewhat unusual and 
striking in the contrast, while at the same time 
we are disengaged to a certain degree from any 
serious emotion. 



ON THE LUDICROUS. 305 

It is proper also to remark, that the bodily 
movement, to which according to its degree we 
give the name of smiling or laughter, is a very 
equivocal sign of our perception of the ludicrous. 
For, in the first place, this perception is not al- 
ways, though it is no doubt frequently, accom- 
panied by the bodily movement. Some persons, 
who seldom or never laugh, are abundantly sen- 
sible of drollery; And, in the second place, the 
bodily movement is excited in some cases of a 
very different kind. There is a smile of surprise 
and of admiration ; a smile of affection >> a smile 
and even a laugh of joy ; there is even a smile of 
contempt, of envy, and of malice ; and laughter 
may be excited in the most violent degree by 
tickling and by hysterics. 

In these cases it will not be said, that the bodi- 
ly movement is produced by any thing which we 
call ludicrous, or even laughable. It may be 
observed, however, that our feelings in some of 
these cases are frequently mingled with those 
which arise from the ludicrous. Thus we may 
despise the person whom we laugh at as ludi- 
crous, and to such an object the epithet of ridi- 

X 



306 ESSAY IX, 

culons is appropriated. And if our contempt 
rise to a remarkable height, more especially if it 
he tinged with indignation, the emotion is more 
particularly called derision ; and they who give 
full vent to their derision, are, with great pro- 
priety and force of expression, said to laugh the 
object of it to scorn. Again, our laughter at 
the ludicrous may be combined both with sur- 
prise and admiration; as when we are enter- 
tained with those unexpected and ingenious sallies 
of drollery, to which we give the name of wit. 
Still, however, the state of mind produced by 
the ludicrous we feel plainly distinguishable 
from our other emotions. 

But it has not been found easy to determine 
precisely the nature of the cases, to which the 
name of ludicrous is applied. For, beside the 
different accounts which were given by former 
philosophers, some later writers have considered 
Dr. Hutcheson's theory as not sufficiently com- 
prehensive, and have accordingly stated as a 
juster description, that the ludicrous results 
from incongruity in general, or from some un- 
suitableness, or want of relation in certain re- 



ON THE LUDICROUS. S07 

spects, among objects which are related in 
other respects. This is Dr. Gerard's account 
in his Essay on Taste, and has been adopted 
by Dr. Campbell in his Philosophy of Rhetoric, 
and by Dr. Beattie in his Essay on Laughter 
and Ludicrous Composition. 

It may be doubted, however, whether this al- 
teration of Dr. Hutcheson's theory be any real 
improvement, either in the science of criticism 
or of the human mind. It is acknowledged by 
the very writers who propose the alteration, that 
the contrast between dignity and meanness con- 
stitutes the principal class of laughable objects. 
And in the examples which have been hitherto 
produced as belonging to a different class, it 
may not, perhaps, be difficult to show, that the 
effect depends on somewhat that is mean or 
trifling, connected with somewhat that is great, 
important, or serious. Dr. Beattie has favour- 
ed the public not only with several excellent 
observations on the subject, but also with the 
most copious collection of examples to sup- 
port the theory, that incongruity in general 
is the source of the ludicrous; and of these 
x 2 



SOS ESSAY IX. 

we shall consider such as the learned author 
conceives to exhibit no contrast of dignity and 
meanness. 

But before we proceed, it is proper to ob- 
serve, that several incongruities, which Dr. 
Hutcheson would no doubt have regarded as 
illustrations of his theory, are stated by Dr. 
Beattie as of a different kind. Thus he con- 
ceives that the absurd epitaphs, or love-letters, 
written by illiterate persons, may exhibit no 
apparent contrast of dignity and meanness, 
even when there is cc a vast disproportion 
Cf between the seriousness of the author and the 
" insignificance of his work, beside many odd 
" contrasts in the work itself, of mean phrases 
(€ and sentiments aspiring to importance, of 
c 1 sounding zvords with little signification, of sen- 
" tences that seem to promise much but end 
" in nothing"* Examples of this sort ought 
surely to be considered as very favourable 
illustrations of Dr. Hutcheson's doctrine. And 
his theory ought in all fairness to be understood 
as comprised in the following proposition ; 

* Beattie's Essays, 4to. p. 642. 



ON THE .LUDICROUS. 309 

namely, that the ludicrous consists in the con- 
trast of somewhat that is great, important, or 
serious, connected with somewhat that is mean 
or trifling. 

"We now proceed to consider the cases which 
Dr. Beattie has stated in opposition to Dr. 
Hutcheson* 

A little reflection may satisfy us, that de- 
formity ought not to have been produced as an 
example of this kind ; and probably it would 
not, if it had been attended to, that our emo- 
tions are frequently raised, not merely by the 
objects actually exhibited or expressed, but 
also by the ideas which these objects suggest. 
Now deformity is a remarkable deviation from 
the natural appearance of the human body ; the 
perception of deviation implies, of necessity, a 
comparison with the standard from which the 
deviation is made ; and no one will dispute the 
elegance and dignity of the human form in its 
more perfect state. 

Accordingly, we are not disposed to laugh 
when we see a man, who looks well in other 
respects, considerably larger than what we 



310 ESSAY. IX, 

regard as the proper standard, unless there be 
also a clumsiness or awkwardness incompatible 
with the dignity which we expect in so great 
a personage. But a woman six feet high, and 
indeed any* woman of a masculine appearance, 
is always somewhat ludicrous ; for here, as 
the word virago sufficiently indicates, we are 
amused by the fancy, that a person with* a 
figure or character so manly should submit 
to the apparel and occupations of the weaker 
and more dependent sex; or that a person 
who assumes the dress of that part of our 
species from whom we expect a modest dignity 
and elegance, should exhibit that coarseness 
and arrogance, into which the manners of our 
sex are so apt to degenerate. On the other 
hand, when any one dwindles considerably be- 
low the standard, even the most beautiful face, 
and a form the most unexceptionable in every 
other respect, will not entirely remove the ludi- 
crous appearance. 

In those cases to which the name of de- 
formity is commonly applied, the contrast be- 
tween the noble and the mean is but too striking. 



ON THE LUDICROUS. 311 

The crooked or distorted body or limbs make 
but a poor appearance, when compared with 
the graceful figures, of which they assume the 
name, and stand as the representatives. The 
features, which, in their natural arrangement, 
form, and proportion, are susceptible not only 
of so engaging, but of so dignified an expres- 
sion* lose their character when they are turned 
awry, or diminished, or enlarged, beyond a 
certain degree, and become only unmeaning 
and awkward implements, stuck up in the places 
of objects which we admire. Do you call that 
a nose? do you call that a leg? are the ques- 
tions which instantly occur even to children, 
when they divert themselves with a person who 
is ugly or deformed. 

We can see too how it happens, that when 
the deformity is equal, the features which are 
enlarged appear more ludicrous than those 
which are diminished. That eminence of cheek- 
bone, that extent of chin, that prominence 
of nose, adorned, perhaps, with carbuncles, 
that protuberance of goggling eyes, exhibit a 
costly apparatus, a more than ordinary pre- 



S\% ESSAY IX. 

paration for the purposes of human physiog- 
nomy, but fall wonderfully short of their high 
pretensions. 

Deformity, too, is not only ludicrous in itself, 
but is frequently rendered greatly more so, by 
means of some foolish expression which it may 
occasion in the face or figure, as of stupidity, 
or affectation, or pertness, or self-conceit, things 
which belong to a more important department 
of the ludicrous. Bodily deformity in itself, 
indeed, is seldom a fair subject of laughter in 
real life. It is a serious misfortune, which may 
fall to the lot of the worthiest, and which ridi- 
cule may embitter, but cannot remove; and 
we soon lose the perception of it in those with 
whom we live, at least if we esteem them. In 
real life it is unpardonable brutality to deride 
anv one for such a cause, unless when he is 
vain of his personal charms, or when his whim- 
sical appearance results from bad habits in the 
looks or gestures, produced by negligence or 
affectation. 

The ease is different in painting and in com- 
position. The strange figures represented by 



ON THE LUDICROUS. 313 

Hogarth, Bunbury, and other characteristical 
painters, afford a lively amusement, which does 
harm to nobody; and gratitude is due to 
every man of genius, who takes the trouble 
to furnish us with a harmless amusement. 
But it deserves to be remarked, that these 
representations of bodily deformity are chiefly 
valuable, when they render more prominent the 
oddities of character, and thus awaken more 
strongly our sense of the ludicrous in those 
follies which are the fair objects of ridicule, 
and for which ridicule is the proper correction. 
Thus in ° Hogarth's Country Dance, which that 
great master has sketched as an illustration 
of his principles in the Analysis of Beauty, as 
also in Bunbury 's humorous drawing of the 
Bath Minuet, most of the figures are extreme- 
ly laughable, not merely from the outward 
deformity which they have either received from 
nature, or into which they are pleased to throw 
themselves, but also from the affectation and 
self-conceit, of which these outward defor- 
mities, if they are not the actual effect, yet 
heighten the expression, or at least render it 



314 ESSAY IX. 

more remarkable. So likewise in dramatic re- 
presentations, and in fictitious history, some- 
thing whimsical in the countenance, shape, or 
attitudes, is frequently introduced to throw a 
higher glare of ridicule on mental absurdity. 

But mental absurdity itself, though not al- 
ways so obvious to a common observer, forms 
a more amusing, as well as more important 
and comprehensive department of the ludicrous. 
It will not be difficult to show, that it exhibits 
a very striking contrast of dignity and mean- 
ness. And it will be proper to pay attention 
to this part of the subject, not only because 
it serves to explain in an easy and satisfactory 
manner several cases, which might otherwise 
appear inconsistent with Dr. Hutcheson's 
theory, but also because it supplies the ma- 
terials of the only species of ludicrous com- 
position, which deserves to be cultivated. 

As deformity is a remarkable deviation from 
the appearance of the human body in its more 
perfect state, so absurdity is a remarkable 
deviation from that more perfect and accom- 
plished state either of the moral or intellectual 



ON THE LUDICROUS. 315 

character, in which the dignity of human nature 
principally consists ; and it is needless to repeat, 
that the perception of deviation implies of ne- 
cessity a comparison with the standard, from 
which the deviation is made. When a creature, 
claiming the name of rational, allows itself to 
be wrought into a ferment by the most frivolous 
causes, or defeats its own purposes by its 
own deliberations, we cannot but feel towards 
so nonsensical a personage somewhat of the 
same sentiments, which a humorous gentleman 
expressed of himself, who, when he played a 
bad stroke at cards, used to apostrophize his 
head, telling it in the plainest and shortest 
terms, that, whatever it might call itself, it was 
not fit to occupy a certain very ignoble de- 
partment in the animal economy. 

The absurdity that displays itself in the 
emotions or sentiments comprehends a variety 
of cases, which are every day exemplified in 
common life, and which are admirably adapted 
to the satirist and comic writer. Such, for 
instance, is the choleric man, who rages at 
every trifling inconvenience or disappointment ; 



316 ESSAY IX. 

the fine lady, who is thrown into hysterics by 
the fall of a china basin; the love-sick swain, 
who languishes for a silly girl that laughs at 
him ; the coxcomb, who displays for his own 
person and accomplishments an admiration, 
which nobody else can entertain ; the miser, 
who starves himself that he may gather a heap 
of what he never means to use, and is to leave 
to those whom he neither loves nor values. 

In these instances the absurdity consists in 
the height to which the emotion is raised be- 
yond what we should expect in a rational 
mind. But there are also ludicrous cases of 
the opposite kind, in which we are diverted 
with the slight impression which is made on the 
stupid or untaught, by objects that have a 
powerful effect on the feeling heart and cul- 
tivated understanding. Thus Garrick's thea- 
trical powers, which rendered him the admi- 
ration of his country, were but poorly esteemed 
by Partridge ; and thus the beauty and gran- 
deur of nature are surveyed with indifference or 
contempt by many a London citizen and town- 
bred lady. And the Jewish proverb, not to 



ON THE LUDICROUS. 317 

throw pearls before swine, expresses strongly, 
and is currently employed to express, both 
our derision in those cases where moral de- 
pravity renders men insensible of high con- 
siderations, and also our ridicule in cases of 
smaller moment, as where the absurdity pro- 
ceeds from want of sensibility or discernment 
in matters of taste. 

But our emotions or sentiments may be 
ludicrous not only from their degree, but also 
from their inconsistency with each other. And 
the contrast of dignity and meanness appears 
but too conspicuous, when instead of the 
serenity that reigns in the mind whose af- 
fections and desires are regulated by reason, 
we observe the regrets and perplexities arising 
from the struggle of incompatible principles, 
as of avarice and vanity, or of indolence and 
ambition. Such cases, indeed, are frequently 
so important or interesting, that our laughter 
may be restrained by serious emotions, but 
otherwise they are extremely diverting : as when 
Harpagon, in.-Moliere's Avare, tortures his 



318 ESSAY IX. 

brain to make a great show at a small expense $ 
or when Sganarelle, in his Mariage force, 
is distracted, first between his fancy for a young 
gay wife, and his doubts of her fidelity; and 
afterward, between his terror for the marriage 
and his terror for the duel. 

Even where there is no direct or evident 
inconsistency, yet a great inconstancy of sen- 
timents forms a ludicrous character. Our 
amusement here may be increased by the con- 
trast of dignity and meanness, which will fre- 
quently be exhibited in the various objects of 
such a person's affections or pursuits ; as in the 
case of him, whom Dryden has described in so 
lively a manner, 



" Who in the course of one revolving moon 

" Was chemist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon." 



But even although the objects of his fluctuating 
attachment should be all of uniform worth and 
importance, we cannot but laugh at the man, 
who devotes himself to every new object that 



ON THE LUDICROUS. 319 

strikes his fancy, who, to use the words of 
Dry den, 

" Is every thing by fits, and nothing long." 

Steadiness both of attachment and pursuit is 
an essential constituent of a respectable cha- 
racter ; and we cannot but be struck with the 
contrast, when we observe a man veering about 
with every transient inclination ; just as we 
could not but be struck with the want of that 
regularity which is requisite for a good time- 
piece, if a clock had its dial-plate connected 
with a weather-cock, so as to turn backwards 
or forwards with every breeze, and thus render 
it impossible to conjecture at what hour the 
hand would be pointing at any particular time 
of the day. Any one who has read Destouche's 
entertaining comedy entitled Vlrresoln, will 
be more sensible of the justness of these ob- 
servations. 

The absurdities of the understanding also 
are well known to be ludicrous, and we cannot 
be at a loss for a similar explanation. When 



320 ESSAY IX. 

a man blunders in his judgments or opinions, 
whether it proceeds from want of knowledge, 
or of recollection, from want of capacity, or of 
attention, it is still a person who makes a fool 
of himself, at the very time and in the very act 
of aspiring to the deliberative, that is to say, to 
the characteristical functions of an intelligent 
being. 

Such blunders are often abundantly laugh- 
able even in speculative opinions, as might be 
illustrated by various examples from the learned 
and metaphysical discussions of Hudibras and 
his Squire, several of which are pointed out by 
Dr. Beattie. These examples are so extra- 
vagant, that we regard them as caricatures ; and 
yet even in real life we sometimes meet with 
instances little inferior in absurdity, and that 
too in persons who are far from being fools, 
but who venture to discourse on subjects which 
they do not understand, or before they have 
taken the trouble to think of what they should 
say. 

But our absurdities become more glaring 
when they display themselves in the conduct : 



ON THE LUDICROUS. 321 

and as it is the exclusive property of the under- 
standing to discover the fittest means for accom- 
plishing our purposes ; hence, when we observe 
a man employing means that are inadequate, 
or, still more absurdly, that counteract his 
purpose, we cannot but be struck with the 
contrast between his folly, and the dignity 
which he assumes of an intelligent being. We 
have a good example in the story of the gen- 
tleman, who after having been frequently dis- 
tressed for want of a sixpence to open his 
snuff-box, which could not be opened easily 
without something of this kind, discovered at 
last, that the surest way of having a sixpence 
always ready for the purpose, was to keep it in 
the box itself. 

If any thing farther be necessary to show, 
that our laughter at absurdity arises from our 
contrasting the folly of the absurd person with 
what we conceive to approach more nearly to 
the perfection of the human character, it will 
be remembered, that they who do not perceive 
the deviation from propriety, are also insensible 
of the joke. The coxcomb, who sees nothing 

Y 



322 ESSAY IX. 

unsuitable to the highest dignity in his osten- 
tatious display of himself, is astonished to be 
received with a titter, instead of the admiration 
to which he thinks himself entitled. A fine 
lady is provoked by the brutality of those, 
who smile at the distress into which her friend 
is thrown by the fall of a china basin ; at least 
this will be the case, if she entertains no malice 
against her friend, if she has the same delicacy 
of nerves, or decorum of feeling, and the same 
just estimation of true Pekin. In the despe- 
rate ease of the snuff-box, a person, who like 
the owner lost sight of one small circumstance 
(and it is wonderful how the most obvious 
things will sometimes escape the attention for 
a moment), that the sixpence when enclosed 
in the box could not be applied to the purpose 
wanted, so readily as the gentleman seems tb 
have conceived in his first hasty view of the 
matter, would approve the sagacious contriv- 
ance, by which the poor man thought he had. 
at last secured himself from much vexation 
during the rest of his life. 

But enough has been said to illustrate the 



ON THE LUDICROUS. 3Z3 

general principle, that absurdity being nothing 
else than a deviation from that more perfect 
state of the moral or intellectual character, in 
which the dignity of human nature chiefly 
consists, hence whatever is perceived as an 
absurdity must of necessity present a contrast 
of dignity and meanness : and it will not be 
disputed, that what we perceive to be absurd, 
we feel of course to be ludicrous, unless when 
we are controlled by serious emotions. 

Now several instances of the ludicrous men- 
tioned by Dr. Beattie are acknowledged ab- 
surdities, though he accounts for their effect in 
a different manner. 

Thus he remarks, that cc Sancho's proverbs 
cc often provoke a smile; not because some 
cc are low, and others elevated, but because, 
" though unconnected with the subject and 
ee with one another, they happen to be spoken 
" at the same time, and absurdly applied 
" to the same purpose."* And this is one 
of the examples which he produces to show, 

* Beattie's Essays, 4to. p. 611. 
Y 2 



6jfe£ ESSAY IX. 

that a group of objects, which are otherwise 
unconnected, may become in some degree 
laughable by juxtaposition. Yet surely no 
person laughs at such a collection of proverbs 
or unconnected sentences as we find in several 
grammars, for exemplifying the idioms of a 
foreign language. He may be amused, indeed, 
with those which are ludicrous in themselves $ 
or with the contiguity of an elevated and a 
low one, or of a serious and a trivial one, 
as if we should suppose the proverb, Evil 
communications corrupt good manners, to be 
followed by, Money makes the mare to go> 
or he may be amused if they should be ar- 
ranged in such a manner as to have the ap- 
pearance of raving. But it is not easy to 
conceive, that their mere juxtaposition should 
" provoke a smile" from a person of the 
lightest mind. And what is diverting in 
Sancho Panca's proverbs is plainly (a cir- 
cumstance which is hinted at by Dr. Beattie 
himself) the absurdity of their application, and 
also the absurdity of his pretensions to wisdom, 
which are founded on the facility with which 



ON THE LUDICROUS, 325 

he repeats a chime of old sayings, sagacious 
in themselves, but extreme! v little to the 
purpose. 

Dr. Beattie has also observed, that " the 
" mind naturally considers as part of the same 
" assemblage and joins together in one view 
" those objects, that appear in the relation 
" of cause and effect. Hence," he says, 
<c when things in other respects unrelated or 
" incongruous are found or supposed to be 
" thus related, they sometimes provoke laugh- 
" ter."* And on this principle he accounts 
for our laughter at conclusions founded upon 
inadequate premises, at the employment of 
means which are disproportioned to the pur- 
pose intended, and at emotions which are 
either too violent or too languid for the oc- 
casion. Now all these cases are plainly in- 
stances of absurdity, and indeed have been 
already illustrated by examples. And it ap- 
pears, that even when there is no contrast of 
dignity and meanness between the conclusion 

* Beattie's Essays, 4to. p. 612. 



326 ESSAY IX. 

and the premises, or between the emotions 
and their cause, yet a very remarkable contrast 
of this kind is forced upon our attention by 
the absurdity which is displayed. 

We must take notice also of another kind of 
absurdity, as Dr. Beattie has produced some 
examples of it by way of a direct contradiction 
to Dr. Hutcheson's theory. It is that talka- 
tiveness or itch of speaking, which, without 
regard to time or place, gives utterance to 
every silly or impertinent thought that is 
passing through the mind. Here is certainly 
a very striking deviation from that use of 
speech which is dictated by common sense, and 
by a decent respect for the feelings of others ; 
and nobody, who is not as foolish, or as thought- 
less and indelicate as the talker himself, will 
be blind to the contrast of propriety and folly : 
more especially as the proper use of speech 
is the faculty by which we are most obviously 
distinguished as rational creatures. 

In real life, indeed, this absurdity, which we 
meet with but too frequently, is often so in- 
sipid and spun out to so great a length, or 



ON THE LUDICROUS. 52? 

so offensive, that our laughter is extinguished 
by weariness or anger. But we find it always 
amusing in compositions, where it cannot hurt 
our feelings, where we may take as much 
or as little of it as we please, and at the time 
when we are most disposed for it, and espe- 
cially when it is conducted by authors like 
Cervantes, or Shakspeare, or Fielding, who 
know how to enliven it by novelty. 

Upon the whole then we cannot admit, that 
the nonsensical and ill-timed loquacity or other 
follies of Sancho Panca, of Hostess Quickly, 
or of the nurse in Romeo and Juliet, or in 
general any laughable absurdities of character 
whatever, are at all inconsistent with the theory, 
that the ludicrous consists in the contrast of 
dignity and meanness.* 

After what has been said it will readily 
occur, that the general principle, which has 
been applied to absurdity and to bodily de- 
formity, is applicable also to other cases. If 
objects of whatever kind possess in their more 

* See Dr. Beanie's Essays, 4to. p. 599 and 61>. 



MS ESSAY IX. 

perfect state any magnificence or beauty, any 
utility or convenience at all, we cannot fail to 
be struck with the contrast of meanness and 
comparative dignity or importance, when some 
disfigured, or maimed, or unmanageable indi- 
vidual of the species presents itself for our use 
or admiration. 

Dr. Beattie has mentioned an example in 
Swift's inventory of his household stuff; 

" An oaken broken elbow-chair, 
" A caudle cup without an ear/' &c. 

He ascribes our laughter, however, to this 
circumstance, that " the various and dissimilar 
f f articles specified in the inventory are similar 
ec and uniform in this one respect, that they 
" are all worn out, imperfect, or useless ; but 
" their meanness, he observes, is without any 
" mixture of dignity."* Now if this were a 
just account of the matter, we should also be 
disposed to laugh at reading an inventory, or 
viewing a collection of furniture, in which all 

* Beanie's Essays, 4to. p. 610. 



ON THE LUDICROUS. 329 

the articles were in the highest order, since the 
various and dissimilar articles would in this 
case also be similar and uniform in one respect, 
being all new, perfect, and convenient. On 
the other hand, although it may be true, that 
the meanness of Swift's household stuff is with- 
out any mixture of dignity, yet we cannot but 
be struck with the contrast between the mean- 
ness and inconvenience of so beggarly an equi- 
page, and the elegance and comforts of a well 
furnished house. A very complete set of fur- 
niture truly ! is the remark which naturally 
occurs on reading the Dean's inventory. And 
in general when we laugh at any thing which 
is imperfect or faulty in its kind, we are always 
ready to use some such expression of ironical 
praise; which shows that our laughter arises 
from comparing the object with the more re- 
spectable individuals of the species in which it 
claims to be ranked. 

Dr. Beattie has also mentioned, in opposition 
to Dr. Hutcheson, the character of Sir Toby 
in the Twelfth Night, and of Autolycus in the 



330 ESSAY IX. 

Winter's Tale.* Now with regard to the first 
of these, the principles already stated are ap- 
plicable to the absurdities of his drunken rav- 
ings. But this facetious gentleman affords us 
also other sources of entertainment. Sir Toby 
is more rogue than fool ; and we laugh chiefly 
at the drollery with which he plays on the 
timidity and vanity of Sir Andrew Aguecheek, 
and the readiness with which this simple youth 
swallows the nonsensical commendations, and 
trusts to the directions of a sot, who seeks only 
to gull him of his money and expose him to 
ridicule. 

Here there is little difficulty in accounting 
for our laughter on Dr. Hutcheson's principles. 
The drollery in which Sir Toby excelled is well 
known under the cant name of quizzing; and 
consists in delivering nonsense or falsehood, 
so that it may pass for wisdom or truth. And 
in this case we are presented with more than 
one laughable contrast. There is the non- 
sense or falsehood, which we despise, assuming 

* Beattie's Essays, 4to, p. 599. 



ON THE LUDICROUS. 3S1 

the importance and seriousness of wisdom or 
truth ; while the attention and submission due 
to the latter only are bestowed on the former, 
instead of the contempt which it deserves. In 
fact, it is well known, that the joke is in pro- 
portion not only to the magnitude of the 
nonsense or falsehood, but also to the gravity 
with which it is delivered, and the respect with 
which it is received. We are often amused 
with the high opinion which the dupe entertains 
of himself, compared with the silly figure which 
he is making in the eyes of every other person. 
And in the dupe's simplicity, and in the extra- 
vagance of his vanity, self-conceit, cowardice, 
or some other emotion, which is brought into 
play by the person who imposes on him, there 
is exhibited that contrast of dignity and mean- 
ness, which, as we have already observed, is 
implied in the very nature of absurdity. Be- 
sides, in the particular case which we are now 
considering, of Sir Toby Belch and Sir Andrew 
Aguecheek, the advantageous and happy si- 
tuation, which the latter flattered himself with 
the prospect of obtaining, compared with the 



33% ESSAY IX. 

contemptible one in which he actually appears, 
not only renders his folly more conspicuous, 
but is itself a striking contrast of the very 
same kind with that which the present theory 
supposes to constitute the ludicrous. For poor 
Sir Andrew, instead of establishing without any 
risk a reputation for courage, and marrying a 
lady of the first beauty and fortune, as his 
friend Sir Toby had led him to expect ; gets his 
head broken disgracefully, is never looked at by 
the lady, and is cheated by his worthy adviser 
out of two thousand pounds. 

It is perfectly consistent, therefore, with Dr. 
Hutcheson's theory, that an exhibition of quiz- 
zing should excite our laughter. And in this 
humour of quizzing, and in the absurdities of 
his drunken ravings, together with now and 
then a pun, or a repartee (which two species of 
the ludicrous we shall consider afterwards), con- 
sists all that is laughable in Sir Toby's charac- 
ter or conversation. 

With regard to Autolycus, if we except that 
he does not appear to be a professional drunk- 
ard, he is a droll of the same kind with Sir 



ON THE LUDICROUS. 333 

Toby 3 but he is in the lowest rank of life, and 
acts both the buffoon and the rogue without re- 
serve, with little fear for his neck, and with none 
for his character. 

It will be remarked, too, that in the re- 
presentation both of Autolycus and Sir Toby, 
a considerable part of our laughter is to be 
ascribed to the buffoonery of the actor; by 
which I mean not only the grimaces of coun- 
tenance, but likewise all the oddities of dress, 
attitudes, voice, appearance, and behaviour in 
general, which are ludicrous by their glaring 
deviation from propriety, and to which the 
observations already stated concerning deformi- 
ty and absurdity are evidently applicable. And 
if our laughter at buffoonery is agreeable to 
Dr. Hutcheson's theory, no objection to that 
theory can be founded on the case mentioned 
by Dr. Beattie* of one buffoon mimicking ano- 
ther, where to our amusement from the buf- 
foonery is superadded the pleasure which we 
receive from the imitation. The two persons 

* Beattie's Essays, 4to. p. 598. 



334 ESSAY IX. 

may, indeed, be perfectly on a level with each 
other ; but this will not prevent us from feeling 
the contrast between the exhibition which they 
make of themselves, and the natural appearance 
and deportment of the more respectable and 
accomplished of our species. 

But in another part of his Essay* it is sug- 
gested, that mimickry is ludicrous even in those 
cases in which it cc displays no contrast of 
cc dignity and meanness ;" and our Jaughter 
is ascribed by Dr. Beattie to this circumstance, 
that as ee we perceive the actions of one man 
" joined to the features and body of another," 
there is of course " a mixture of unsuitableness, 
cc or want of relation, arising from the difference 
cc of the persons, with congruity and similitude, 
cc arising from the sameness of the actions." 
Dr. Beattie, however, has produced no example 
or illustration ; and it is evident that Dr. 
Hutcheson's theory will not be affected by the 
observation, unless it can be shown that there 
may be cases which we shall feel to be ludi-* 

* Beattie's Essays, 4to. p. 603. 



ON THE LUDICROUS. 335 

crous, although we are not struck with any con- 
trast between what is dignified or serious, and 
what is mean or trifling. 

Jn fact, specimens of mimickry may be con- 
ceived, which would not excite laughter. Gar- 
rick is said to have possessed uncommon talents 
as a mimick 5 and it may be presumed, that he 
could have affected his hearers with very serious 
emotions by delivering a speech in the character 
of Lord Mansfield. 

Such specimens, however, are extremely rare. 
For the imitation must always be chiefly direct- 
ed to the peculiarities of the original ; and very 
few performers will be able to restrain themselves 
(and very few spectators would be gratified if 
they did) from exaggerating these peculiarities 
to some degree of caricature, that is to say, of 
deformity and absurdity. And even although 
there is no exaggeration, yet it will seldom be 
possible, by the most skilful management, to re- 
move all appearance of caricature, where the 
peculiarities of one man are exhibited in the 
person of another. 

Besides, the most serious specimens of mi- 



SS6 ESSAY IX. 

mickry must have some tendency to suggest 
certain ludicrous ideas. What was originally 
grave and important is now converted into 
an amusement. The companion, who was 
conversing with liveliness and familiarity, 
has all at once put on the dignity of a judge, 
or risen to the vehemence of the most in- 
teresting emotions. There may also be a 
striking contrast between the character or the 
station of the performer, and that of the 
person whom he represents. Or if in these 
respects they are both on a level, and both of 
dignity, there will then be a contrast between 
the real dignity of the performer and the 
humble capacity of a mimick, in which he con- 
descends to officiate for our entertainment. 
Although some of these contrasts are suggested 
by serious theatrical representations, yet they 
can scarcely have any sensible effect when these 
representations are tolerably conducted, on 
account of the powerful emotions by which we 
are subdued. But we can seldom meet with 
exhibitions of mimickry sufficiently impressive 
and pathetic. 



ON THE LUDICROUS. 337 

Upon the whole, even the case of serious 
mimickry has nothing inconsistent with Dr. 
Hutcheson's theory. 

Parody may be considered as a species of mi- 
mickry; it is one composition mimicking an- 
other. When the imitation, either from its sub- 
ject or language, or any other circumstance, is 
much inferior in dignity to the original, our 
laughter is perfectly consistent with the theory. 
But Dr. Beattie says, that " Parodies may be 
< c ludicrous from the opposition between simU 
" larity of phrase and diversity of meaning, even 
cc though both the original and the imitation be 
<e serious."* The only thing, however, which 
he produces as an example of such a parody, is 
the following stanza from an imitation of Gray's 
celebrated Elegy : 

" Bread was his only food, his drink the brook* 

" So small a salary did his rector send : 

" He left his laundress all he had, a book : 

" He found in death, 'twas all he wish'd, a friend/* 

Now the second and third of these lines are 

* Beattie's Essays, 4to. p, 637. 
Z 



338 ESSAY IX. 

so mean, when compared with the dignity 
which we expect in serious poetry, and par- 
ticularly with the admirable verses which cor- 
respond to them in the original, that they seem 
fitter to be quoted in illustration than in oppo- 
sition to the theory. And Dr. Beattie's obser- 
vation concerning the ludicrous nature of paro- 
dies in general, appears directly inconsistent 
with the following fact. We find in the iEneid 
a variety of passages, which are evidently imi- 
tations or parodies of certain passages in the 
Iliad and Odyssey. The subjects in both 
authors are of equal grandeur ; many readers, 
although great admirers of Homer, are yet 
of opinion, that Virgil is not inferior in dignity to 
his master; and it will not be said, that such 
readers at least are tempted to laugh when 
they compare the Latin parodies with the Greek 
originals. 

But Dr. Beattie has brought forward a very 
respectable champion of a different kind, in 
the character of the good Dr. Harrison in 
Fielding's Amelia. " Dr. Harrison/' he ob- 
serves, " is never mean, but always respect- 



ON THE LUDICROUS, 339 

cc able; yet there is a dash of humour in him, 
" which often betrays the reader into a smile.*" 
But the occasions, on which this excellent 
person tempts us to smile, are when he is hur- 
ried into a boyish impetuosity or levity of ex- 
pression or behaviour, which, although it does 
not diminish our esteem, yet certainly lowers 
our venerations and affords a striking enough 
contrast with his respectable qualities, as well 
as with the moderation and calmness which are 
essential constituents of dignity. This is the 
light in which we view the good Divine, when, 
after commending Booth's conduct with regard 
to Amelia, he declared, that if he knew half 
a dozen of such instances in the army, the 
painter should put red liveries on all the saints 
in his closet -> or when the violence with which 
his indignation made him toss about the ex- 
pensive toys which he found in Booth's lodg- 
ings, frightened the servant-girl into the belief 
that he was come to pillage the house; or, 
when he tells Colonel Bath, who had declared 

* Beattie's Essays, 4to. p. 599,. 
Z 2 



340 ESSAY IX, 

that he would fight for the church of England 
to the last drop of his blood ; that it was very- 
generous in him to do so much for a religion by 
which he was to be damned. 

In this last instance, indeed, there is another 
distinct source of laughter, which we shall 
just remark, as it explains how repartees ex- 
cite our mirth, even although what is said may 
have nothing ludicrous in itself. The Doctor 
having insisted, that Colonel Bath's principles 
with regard to duelling were altogether incom- 
patible with Christianity, the Colonel declared, 
that he was not only a Christian of the church 
of England, but was ready to shed his blood 
in her defence, an observation which produced 
the blunt reply that has been already men- 
tioned. Now, upon this occasion, we laugh 
not only at the absurd impetuosity of the 
reverend pastor, but also at the Colonel's fool- 
ish appearance, compared with the self-import- 
ance assumed in the dignified remark, which 
produced the unexpected and confounding re- 
partee. 

This reply, however, is so presumptuous and 



ON THE LUDICROUS. 341 

^ven brutal, that, although we are amused at 
the Colonel's confusion, we are at the same 
time ashamed for the hot-headed Doctor. 
But the finest repartees are those, which, 
although they suggest a proper censure to 
humble the antagonist, yet, in their direct 
meaning, are complimentary, or, at least, in- 
offensive. The antagonist is thus more com- 
pletely confounded, and even appears to be 
deprived of all means of retaliation. A certain 
author, who has been accused of adopting 
unintelligible tenets, said to a person whose 
learning he respected, but of whose metaphy- 
sical acuteness he did not entertain so high an 
opinion, " I will send you my book, if you 
" will promise to read it;" cc I shall certainly 
" read it," said the other, " if you will pro- 
" mise that I shall understand it." cc Nay," 
replied the first, " I cannot answer for 
" that." 

Beside the specimen which Fielding has ex- 
hibited in the character of Dr. Harrison, there 
are various other cases, in which we are divert- 
ed by the mixture and contrast of childish- 



342 ESSAY IX, 

ness or levity with what is respectable or 
serious. Dr. Beattie has produced* a curious 
instance from the Beggar's Opera. " Really, 
" madam, " says Filch to Mrs. Peachum, " I 
<c fear I shall be cut off in the flower of my 
ff youth ; so that every now and then, since I 
" was pumped, I have thoughts of taking up, 
" and going to sea." Here we may perceive 
two distinct causes of laughter, both perfectly 
consistent with Dr. Hutcheson's theory. First, 
we have a sufficiently striking contrast of dignity 
and meanness, between the discipline of pump- 
ing to which Filch was subjected, and the good 
resolutions to which it had given rise in his 
mind. But, secondly, we are to take notice of 
another circumstance : the speaker appears at 
the beginning to be impressed with a most im- 
portant consideration, and we are immediately 
surprised with a very singular contrast of levity, 
which discovers itself in his whimsical account 
of the first turn of his thoughts to reformation 
and a sea-faring life. 

* Beattie's Essays, 4to. p. 612. 



ON THE LUDICROUS. 343 

We have sometimes a contrast of the same 
kind in conversation, when a person, for his 
amusement, affects to understand what is said, 
in a sense different from that which is really 
intended. " In what light," cried one, (C do 
" you consider the man, who is caught in 
" adultery ?" " As a tardy fellow," replied 
another.* There is, indeed, in this example, 
a contrast of importance and meanness in 
the different views, which these two persons 
take of the adulterer; the one impressed with 
his guilt, the other attending only to his tardi- 
ness. But we laugh also at the contrast be- 
tween the seriousness of the one and the play^ 
fulness of the other. And accordingly, even 
when there is no importance in the subject, or 
in any of the views which are taken of it, we 
are still diverted, when the one party trifles 
while the other is serious. As in the common 
story : fC What wine do you like best ?" " Port," 



* This is expressed much more neatly in Latin : 

Uualem existimas qui in adulterio deprehenditur ? Tardum, 

Cicero de Oratore, 1. 2. 



344 ESSAY IX. 

says one ; " Claret," says another; es the wine 
* c of other people," says a third. 

Punning is nothing else than using an ex- 
pression in a meaning different from that in 
which it would be employed upon the occasion 
by a person speaking seriously. As in Martial's 
epigram : 

Esse nihil dicis quicquid petis, improbe Cinna : 
Si nil, Cinna, petis, nil tibi, Cinna, nego. 

'Tis nothing now, you simpering say, 
The favour which you beg to-day : 
Why then, dear sir, you must allow, 
That I refuse you nothing now. 

A similar contrast of seriousness and trifling 
appears in the Paronomasia, which consists in 
the antithesis of expressions similar in sound 
but different in meaning. " Some men's Para- 
6C dise" said a preacher, " is a pair of dice ,• 
" matrimony is become a matter of money ; and 
* c all houses are turned into ale-houses. Were 
u there such doings in the days of Noah f 
w Ah, nor 



ON THE LUDICROUS. 345 

Dr. Beattie* agreeably to the theory which 
he has adopted, and in opposition to Dr. 
Hutcheson's, ascribes our laughter upon such 
occasions to the mixture of sameness and di- 
versity, of sameness or similarity in sound, and 
diversity in signification. And it is easy to 
see, that such a mixture, where it appears un- 
common and difficult, will be amusing, not 
only from the surprise which it occasions, but 
also from our admiration (a low species of 
admiration indeed) at the address of the person, 
who has acquired such a command of lan- 
guage. But if the mixture of sameness and 
diversity were in itself a cause of laughter, 
then every example of synonymous words, 
whether in the same, or in different languages, 
would also be a joke, since here too we have a 
mixture of sameness and diversity, sameness in 
the meaning and diversity in the sound. 

But although the mixture of sameness and 
diversity will not in itself appear laughable 
even to those who are the most susceptible of 

* Essays, 4to. p, 599. 



346 ESSAY IX. 

ludicrous impressions, yet any man who is not 
occupied by serious considerations, or restrained 
by powerful emotions, will be tempted to 
smile, when he observes one person employing 
language seriously as the means of communi- 
cating his thoughts, while another uses it only 
as a plaything for the exercise of his ingenuity. 
Nor is it necessary, that we should have the 
seriousness of one person to compare with the 
playfulness of another. The contrast is still 
ludicrous enough when the instrument which 
we are either actually employing for the se- 
rious communication of thought, or which, 
at least, we know to be naturally appropriated 
for that important purpose, we contrive, by the 
by, to sport with for our amusement. 

Here it may be said, that, according to this 
account, both rhyming and versification, and 
even every harmonious period, should be laugh- 
able, since language is in these cases employed 
not only for the serious communication of 
thought, but also for the comparatively trifling 
purpose of amusing the ear. Now the fact is, 
that on some occasions we are disposed to 



ON THE LUDICROUS. 34? 

laugh at these circumstances, and on other 
occasions we are affected in a very different 
manner ; but neither case will be found incon- 
sistent with the theory. 

For, in the first place, those modifications 
of common speech, that render it more agree- 
able to the ear, strike us in very many instances 

rather as the natural properties of the language 

i 
itself, than as adventitious ornaments laboured 

out by the art of the author or speaker. In 
the next place we know, that the mind is 
powerfully affected by melodious and regulated 
sounds, even when they are not, like language, 
the signs of ideas. Such is the case with in- 
strumental music. We are even sensibly af- 
fected by sounds, which are destitute of me- 
lody, if only their intervals are properly regu- 
lated, as in the beating of a drum, or the 
tinkling of a cymbal. Accordingly, the into- 
nations of voice, the harmony of periods, and 
that regular flow of numbers which constitutes 
verse, will not be felt as trifling, so long as 
their effect, whether solemn, or pathetic, or 
gay, or soothing, is favourable to the emotions 



348 ESSAY IX. 

which the sentiments produce ; and so long as 
they do not appear to be the result of too 
great labour and research. Even rhyme, which 
seems, when we consider it abstractedly, so 
egregiously trifling, is not only agreeable in. 
itself, as we see from the delight that children 
and common people take in it ; but also, as it 

serves, like the drum or cymbal, to mark more 

i 
distinctly the regular flow of the numbers, con- 
tributes not a little to the effect of the versifi- 
cation. 

But, on the other hand, if the music of the 
language does not correspond with the state of 
mind which is suitable to the occasion, it must, 
of course, appear not only a trifling, but an 
absurd contrivance, and in both of these views 
it will have a ludicrous effect. Thus we should 
certainly be tempted to smile, if the languishing 
tones and soothing numbers, which belong to 
supplication, pity, and the tender emotions, 
were employed in a discourse that was in- 
tended to enliven, or to encourage, or to com- 
mand, or to instruct us in the arts and 
sciences. 



ON THE LUDICROUS. 349 

In the next place, if the means employed to 
make the language agreeable be not such as 
we have been accustomed to, they will of 
course draw our attention to themselves, and 
must have the appearance, not of being the 
constituents, or ordinary properties, but only 
the ornaments of language. And, accordingly, 
unless they have a powerful command over our 
higher emotions, they will not fail to be ludi- 
crous ; until, from being accustomed to them, 
we do not feel them so distinct from the other 
properties of the language, and perhaps have 
formed associations of ideas which increase 
their serious influence. Thus, the tones of a 
foreigner sound at first uncouthly to our ear ; 
and children and common people, who are 
not accustomed to check the expressions of 
their feelings, are always ready to laugh at him 
even in the pronunciation of his own language, 
and even when he is pronouncing it to the 
entire satisfaction of his own countrymen. So 
likewise any forms of verse, which are not usual 
in English, however fine their effects may be 
in the languages, in which we have been ac- 



350 ESSAY IX. 

customed to find them, give a whimsical air to 
an English poem. This appears sufficiently 
from the unsuccessful attempts to introduce 
the Greek and Latin numbers into our versifi- 
cation, as in the Sapphic and Adonic stanzas of 
Dr. Watts on the Last Dav, of which the fol- 
lowing is a specimen : 

When the fierce North- wind with his airy forces 
Rears up the Baltic to a foaming fury, 
And the red lightning, like a storm of hail, comes 
Rushing amain down. 

Rhyme is one of the most palpable contriv- 
ances for amusing the ear with the mere sound 
of words ; yet it is so agreeable a way of mark- 
ing the measure of the verse, that when once 
we have been accustomed to it, we attend only 
to its pleasing effects, with little or no reflection 
on the frivolity of the contrivance. But where 
the rhyme happens to be of an unusual kind, 
the frivolity is forced on our notice; and we 
feel very sensibly, that such rhymes are fit only 
for ludicrous compositions. 

In our language double rhymes are far less 



ON THE LUDICROUS. 351 

frequent than single ones. Accordingly, double 
rhymes are very sparingly employed in serious 
poetry, as they have always somewhat of a 
ludicrous cast, except only when their effect on 
the ear is remarkably pleasing, and favourable 
to the proper emotions, while at the same time 
they result from the most natural expressions 
without any appearance of research. For 
instance, when the first syllable is neither 
hard nor sonorous, but soft and easily arti- 
culated, the double rhyme is very soothing - 3 and 
in passages which are designed to sooth, it will 
have a delightful effect, provided that the words 
are both proper and obvious : as in the fol- 
lowing lines from Dryden's celebrated poem, 
entitled Alexander's Feast : 

Softly sweet in Lydian measures, 
Soon he sooth'd iiis soul to pleasures, 
War, he sung, is toil and trouble, 
Honour but an empty bubble, 
Never ending, still beginning, 
Fighting still, and still destroying : 
If the world be worth thy winning, 
Think, oh ! think it worth enjoying. 



352 ESSAY IX. 

But in other cases double rhymes in English 
poetry are fit for those passages only where the 
author means to be playful. It will be re- 
marked also, that of such rhymes the most un- 
common are the most ludicrous. In Hudibras 
we find many specimens : 

Cesar himself could never say 

He got two vict'ries in a day, 

As I have done, that can say, twice 1 

In one day veni, vidi, vici * 

Those wholesale critics that in coffee - 
Houses cry down all philosophy, f 

Alas! quoth Hudibras, what is't t'us, 
Whether 'twere said by Trismegistus ? % 

Upon the whole, then, with regard to what 
we may call the music of language, there 
is nothing inconsistent with Dr. Hutcheson's 
theory ; for the music of language is ludicrous 
only on those occasions, where it has the ap- 
pearance either of absurdity or of trifling. 

Of all the cases produced by Dr. Beattie 

* Hudibras, part 1. canto 3. 
f Ibid, part 2. canto 3. % Ibid. ibid. 



ON THE LUDICROUS. 353 

in opposition to the theory (if we except 
Butler's comparison of the morning dawn to 
a boiled lobster,* a case which speaks for 
itself), only three remain to be considered. 
One of them is an expedient, which, if it does 
not always " promote mirth," will have the 
effect of exciting curiosity and invention, and 
consequently may prove a very good amuse- 
ment. The business is, that each person of a 
company, one after another, writes a line on 
the same page of paper; no one knows in the 
mean time, what the others have put down, 
as care is taken always to cover what has been 
already written ; and lastly, the whole is read 
aloud to the impatient audience. j* Of the 
same kind also is the device, which is men- 
tioned, though with a different view, in another 
part of the essay, J when the facetious Papyrius 
Cursor " read the newspaper quite across the 
" page, without minding the space that dis- 
" tinguishes the columns, and so pretended to 

* Beattie's Essays, 4to. p. 603. f Ibid. p. 61 h 

X Ibid, p, 597. 

2 A 



354 ESSAY IX. 

" light upon some very diverting combina- 
" tions. ,, 

Now it is evident, that a curious enough 
contrast of seriousness and trifling may be ex- 
hibited by a person, who reads a string of 
incoherent sentences, with the gravity which 
would be suitable for a connected discourse. 
But it has not been shown, by example or 
argument, that such a collection of incoherent 
sentences will appear ludicrous in itself, when 
it neither exhibits nor suggests any contrast 
of dignity and meanness, or of seriousness and 
trifling. On the contrary, the observations 
which have been made on Sancho Panca's 
proverbs, are evidently applicable to the pre- 
sent case. 

Let us now consider, whether the following 
account of Hudibras's dagger will afford an in- 
stance " of laughter arising from a group of 
<c ideas or objects, wherein there is no discern- 
" ible opposition of meanness and dignity :"* 

It could scrape trenchers, or chip bread ; 
Toast cheese or bacon, though it were 

* Beattie's Essays, 4to. p. 598, 



ON THE LUDICROUS. 355 

To bait a mouse-trap, 'twould not care ; 
'Twould make clean shoes ; or in the earth 
Set leeks and onions, and so forth. 

Here Dr. Beattie says, that " the humour of 
" the passage cannot arise from the meanness 
« c of the offices compared with the dignity 
" of the dagger ; nor from any opposition 
<c of dignity and meanness in the offices them- 
" selves, they being all equally mean ; and 
sc must therefore be owing to some other 
" peculiarity in the description. " This pecu- 
liarity we afterwards find to be, that " the 
" offices ascribed to the dagger seem quite 
<c heterogeneous ; but we discover a bond of 
" connexion among them, when we are told, 
" that the same weapon could occasionally 
" perform them all."* 

Yet surely it does not require half the 
talents displayed in Dr. Beattie's essay to point 
out certain very laughable contrasts, which are 
naturally, and indeed irresistibly suggested 
by these lines of Butler. For the dagger, 

* Beattie's Essays, 4to. p. 603. 

2a3 



356 ESSAY IX. 

whose proper office every person will acknow- 
ledge to be an awful one, is here degraded into 
the most servile and low employments, and 
goes about them too with a familiarity and 
unconcern, which bespeak a character strangely 
debased below its original dignity ; 

though it were 
To bait a mouse-trap, 'twould not care ! 

Then, again, we cannot but be diverted both 
at the absurdity, the beggarly accoutrements, 
and the nastiness of the hero, who employs one 
and the same instrument, I do not say in 
the incongruous, but the incompatible offices 
of onion-dibble, cheese-toaster, shoe-scraper, 
trencher-scraper, and bread-chipper. 

Such appear to be the considerations which 
raise our laughter in the present case. But 
there does not seem to be any thing ludicrous 
in the mere cireumstance, that one and the 
same instrument is employed in performing 
different offices, however dissimilar these 
offices may be, if this diversity of employ- 
ment neither exhibits nor suggests any con- 



ON THE LUDICROUS. 357 

trast of dignity and meanness, nor implies 
any thing absurd or otherwise ridiculous in 
the employer. We laugh when Horace tells us, 
that the carpenter was uncertain whether he 
should make his block of wood a stool or 
a god ; but unless we were diverted with the 
poor man's irresolution, which, as we have 
already observed, is naturally a laughable 
object, there would have been no joke, if 
he had only been uncertain whether to make 
it a stool or a sign-board, though these two 
things are completely incongruous. So like- 
wise, although toasting cheese and cutting 
strings are employments of completely different 
kinds, yet no one would think it comical, if a 
common person, who had nothing more con- 
venient at hand, should toast a bit of cheese 
on the point of a pocket-knife, which he kept 
for cutting strings or sticks. We might pro- 
bably smile, however, if we saw him make 
this use of a pair of scissars, by recollecting 
their more cleanly and elegant occupations in 
the hands of the ladies. But if we saw him 
toast his cheese on the point of a sword or 



35$ ESSAY IX. 

bayonet, although either of these deadly wea* 
pons would be more convenient for the purpose 
than the pocket-knife, yet nothing could restrain 
our laughter but the fear of being run through 
the body. 

We have now to close this long scrutiny 
with the only remaining case, that of the 
Enraged Musician, a well known picture of the 
celebrated Hogarth. " This extraordinary 
" group," Dr. Beattie says, " comprehends 
" not any mixture of meanness and dignity ;" 
but he observes, that it " forms a very comi- 
" cal mixture of incongruity and relation; — of 
■" incongruity, owing to the dissimilar employ- 
<c ments and appearances of several persons, 
" and to the variety and dissonance of their 
<e respective noises ; — and of relation, owing 
" to their being all united in the same place, 
"and for the same purpose of tormenting the 
" poor fiddler."* 

Now in this observation are pointed out 
circumstances, which suggest to every one who 

* Beattie's Essays, 4to. p. 607. 



ON THE LUDICROUS. 359 

looks at the picture, very curious contrasts of 
dignity and meanness. For, in the first place, 
by the appearance of the musician himself at 
the window, with his violin in his hand, vainly 
endeavouring to disperse his troublesome neigh- 
bours in the street, and shutting his ears in 
rage and misery, we have the charms of music 
brought into as direct and striking a com- 
parison, as it was possible for a picture to 
accomplish, with the monstrous jarring of all 
the vilest noises, that could be collected from 
the lanes of London -> the ill-tuned and most 
vociferous concert of the different cries, the 
grating sounds of knife-grinders, the peal of 
bells, indicated by the flag on St. Martin's 
steeple, the screams of children, the barking, 
snarling, and howling of dogs, the cater- 
wauling of cats, and, for the counter-tenor of 
the infernal harmony, the shrill heart-piercing 
yells of scolding wenches. In fact, according 
to the observations which we have already had 
occasion to state and illustrate, this extra- 
ordinary concert would of itself be laughable, 
although the musician had not been introduced 



360 ESSAY IX. 

For the clashing of the harsh and discordant 
noises would of itself suggest to any one, whose 
ears are assailed and tortured by it, the very 
different effect of sounds in that state of refine- 
ment to which we give the names of melody 
and harmony. But the appearance of the mu- 
sician renders the contrast still more striking, 
and consequently makes a still more laughable 
group. 

In another view, to which we are directed by 
the very title of the piece, the fiddler is ex- 
tremely diverting, as he exhibits in his figure 
and deportment all the deformity and absurdity 
of extravagant rage. For he could not have 
been wrought up to a higher pitch of fury, if 
the people had deliberately assembled below 
his window for the express purpose of insulting 
and tormenting him; whereas, it is evident, 
that each of them is wholly engaged in his own 
occupation, without having any intention, 
and, indeed, without being conscious of their 
giving him the smallest offence. What is still 
more absurd, he vainly imagines, that the 
execrations which he is uttering with such 



ON THE LUDICROUS. 361 

bitterness from the window, will make an im- 
pression amidst the din and confusion of the 
street; while, on the other hand, it is evident, 
that neither his execrations nor his furious 
looks, if they were perceived, would have the 
smallest effect to appease the storm, and that 
his unavailing screams are only adding another 
part, which might well have been spared, to a 
harmony already overloaded. To this we may 
add, that the complete unconcern and un- 
consciousness of the -people with regard to the 
distress which they are occasioning, and the 
serenity, indeed, which appears in several of 
the countenances, renders still more glaring, 
by contrast, the foolish and impotent ferocity 
of the fiddler. 

We have now finished the review which was 
proposed; and, if the observations which have 
been made in the course of it be just, it ap- 
pears, not only that Dr. Hutcheson's theory 
remains unaffected by the examples which Dr. 
Beattie has opposed to it, but also that the 
theory, which resolves the ludicrous into mere 
incongruity, is not supported by facts, as several 



36^ ESSAY IX. 

cases have been produced, where incongruous 
objects are closely related to each other, but 
without assuming a ludicrous appearance. 

It may still, however, be imagined, that al- 
though we cannot admit, in its full extent, the 
theory proposed by Dr. Gerard and his follow- 
ers, yet Dr. Hutcheson's theory is too much 
limited, and that the ludicrous is produced by 
the connexion of objects or ideas, which are 
not merely incongruous, but of opposite kinds, 
or productive of opposite emotions. Thus, it 
may be said, we are apt to laugh when an ugly 
person is conversing with a beautiful one; or 
when any one is agitated between hope and 
fear; or when a man, whom we suppose to be 
glad in his heart, puts on a dismal countenance 
at the funeral, which brings him to the posses- 
sion of an estate ; nay, we should even think it 
somewhat droll, to see a person all in white be- 
side another all in black. 

But these examples, however plausible they 
may appear, are not conclusive. For although 
the beautiful person should be supposed to 
have less dignity than the ugly, still the beauty 



ON THE LUDICROUS. 86$ 

of the one must render the ugliness of the other 
more conspicuous ; and his ugliness must have 
a mean appearance, if not by comparison with 
the beauty of the particular person, who is near 
him, yet certainly by another comparison, which 
is implied in the very notion of ugliness; name- 
ly, a comparison with the figure, which he would 
have made, if he had not exhibited so glaring 
deviations from the more perfect form of iiis 
species. On the other hand, we may be satis- 
fied, that our laughter does not proceed from 
the circumstance, that the qualities or appear- 
ances of the two persons are opposite; since 
the greatest giggler that ever lived is not diverted 
at seeing an old person in conversation with a 
young one. 

With regard to the second case; a person 
agitated between hope and fear, or between 
any two motives, which impel in opposite di- 
rections, is no doubt apt to fall into a hesi- 
tation, or an inconsistency of conduct, which 
may be extremely ridiculous from its absurdity, 
or appearance of absurdity. But, who would 
think of laughing, merely because the probabi- 



364 ESSAY IX. 

lity of a loss at cards was equal to the probability 
of a gain. 

We laugh at the dismal countenance of an 
heir at his predecessor's funeral, when we sus- 
pect, or conceive, that it is only a hum, or 
hypocritical grimace, a species of the ludicrous 
which has been already considered. And the 
happier we imagine him to be in his heart, his 
grimace will appear the more ridiculous, at least 
till our indignation overcomes our propensity to 
laugh. 

This, however, is no proof, that a contrast 
between sorrow and joy has in itself a ludicrous 
appearance. If it has, then we should laugh 
when a person, who is sorry for the illness or 
misfortune of one friend, expresses satisfaction 
at the recovery or prosperity of another. It is 
true, that we are tempted to smile at a person, 
who protests that he is excessively distressed 
at one event, and in the next breath de- 
clares that he is quite overjoyed at something 
else. But here we are diverted at the absurd 
extravagance of the language, where much is 
professed while little is felt; a hum, which is 



ON THE LUDICROUS. 365 

the more palpable and absurd, as every one 
feels, that excessive joy and excessive sorrow 
cannot subsist together in the same mind, and 
cannot even succeed each other so rapidly, at 
least without a convulsive struggle, very dif- 
ferent from the state of the man who is speak- 
ing quite at his ease. And all this is quite a 
different thing from the case of a person who 
tells us, without affectation, that some piece of 
good news gives him pleasure, while a piece of 
bad news gives him concern j a case, surely, 
which would never be quoted as a specimen of 
the ludicrous. 

It may be said, however, that a merry coun- 
tenance and a rueful visage form a ludicrous 
group. This will no doubt be the case, when 
each of these objects, or either of them, is 
ludicrous in itself. And when we are not re- 
strained by sympathy or displeasure, we may 
be tempted to smile at the contrast between the 
levity of mirth and the seriousness of sorrow. 
It is to be remembered, too, that sorrow, borne 
with tolerable patience, has a dignity which 
commands our respect; whereas joy is ex- 



S66 , ESSAY IX. 

tremely apt to degenerate more or less into the 
low friskiness of mirth. Hence the grimace of 
sorrow, like the strut of mock-majesty, will be 
always ridiculous. And hence there will very 
often be something whimsical in the conversa- 
tion between a sad and a cheerful man. But 
joy, as well as sorrow, may be supported with 
calmness and dignity; and nobody sees any 
thing ludicrous in the contrast between sorrow 
and peace of mind. 

These observations will be illustrated by the 
case which was mentioned of the black and 
white figures. For if we smile at seeing a 
person in white beside another in black, this 
cannot proceed from the mere contrast of the 
colours; otherwise we should think it droll 
to see a lady in a white gown with black ri- 
bands; a dress which, far from being ludicrous, 
is extremely elegant. We should, indeed, be 
diverted at a person, the upper part of whose 
apparel was all white, and the lower all black. 
But such an appearance would be very ugly ; 
and our laughter at an ugly dress will not 
be thought inconsistent with Dr. Hutcheson's 

/ ■ 



ON THE LUDICROUS. 36? 

theory, if we admit the principles which have 
been stated concerning deformity and absur- 
dity. 

It is evident, then, that our laughter at 
the black and white figures must be ascribed, 
not to the mere contrast of the colours, but 
to some ideas suggested by the appearance. 
Now, if the white figure be gayly and fanci- 
fully attired, and more especially if the coun- 
tenance and demeanour favour the idea, it is 
the genius of mirth associated with the genius 
of mourning ; and we may naturally be amused 
both at the absurdity of two such characters 
preferring each other's company, and also at 
the seriousness of the one contrasted with the 
levity of the other. But if the figure in white 
be simply, though elegantly dressed, and if the 
countenance, though young and happy, be at 
the same time serene, it is the emblem of peace 
or tranquil joy; and the two companions, whe- 
ther our thoughts take a melancholy or cheer- 
ful course, will affect us with sentiments very 
different from laughter. 

It appears, then, that in order to produce a 



368 ESSAY IX. 

ludicrous effect, an author must fix our atten- 
tion upon a contrast exhibited or suggested be- 
tween somewhat that is comparatively great, 
severe, or important, on the one hand, and 
somewhat that is mean or trifling on the other : 
it being always understood, that the contrasted 
qualities must either reside in the same object, 
or, if they reside in different ones, yet that these 
objects must have some remarkable resemblance 
or relation to each other. 

The propriety of this limitation will not be 
disputed. There is a sufficiently remarkable 
contrast, both in appearance and in station, be- 
tween the porter of a ball-room and the com- 
pany who pass him; the connexion, however, 
is too slight to occasion laughter. But if the 
porter should proceed to form a closer con- 
nexion, if he should be pleased to make himself 
one of the company, or to dance a minuet with 
a fine lady, the room would be instantly in a 
roar. 

The necessity of some remarkable relation 
between the different objects, when the opposite 
qualities do not both reside in one, may be ac- 



ON THE LUDICROUS. 369 

counted for in this manner ; that otherwise the 
qualities are not so closely connected as to pro- 
duce that vivid contrast, that rapid vibration 
between the opposite feelings, which appears to 
be essential to the ludicrous sentiment. It is to 
be observed, likewise, that the effect of the con- 
nexion to enliven the contrast arises not merely 
from the intimate association which it produces 
in our mind between the opposite ideas, but 
also from our surprise and wonder at the strange 
union of so incongruous qualities; and this 
surprise and wonder themselves constitute at the 
same time a very considerable part of our 
amusement. 

But any particular case of this union may 
be so often presented, that, however strange 
it may be in itself, and however powerful 
its effect on a person to whom it is new, yet 
its impression upon those who have been accus- 
tomed to it will become too languid, to excite 
their attention to its oddity. We are much 
diverted by many of the old-fashioned dresses 
which have been preserved with so much care 
by some judicious painters in family pictures, 

2 B 



370 ESSAY IX. 

and we certainly could not refrain from laugh* 
ing, if we saw an assembly of our modern 
beauties furbished out in the same taste. Yet 
our good fathers, who were accustomed to the 
appearance, had no difficulty to preserve their 
decorum when they entered the ball-room ; and 
it would have required a man of some talents 
and humour, to represent the absurdity of their 
mantua-makers', and milliners*, and hair-dres- 
sers' contrivances with sufficient vivacity to ex- 
cite their ridicule. 

Hence it is evident, that to excel in ludicrous 
composition, requires not only great vivacity in 
the contrast between dignity and meanness, but 
likewise somewhat unusual and unexpected in 
the combination of these qualities. 

It is by no means implied, however, that the 
ludicrous circumstances daily exhibited in com- 
mon life are on this account improper for such 
compositions. In fact, many things are daily 
to be seen in the appearance and conduct of 
mankind, which are not only fair and instructive 
objects of ridicule, but which may also be ren- 
dered entertaining in a very high degree. Nor 



ON THE LUDICROUS. 371 

is this at all inconsistent with the principle 
which has just been mentioned. For although 
many things are so familiar as scarcely to en- 
gage our attention upon ordinary occasions, 
yet on this very account the ludicrous contrast 
which thev suggest to an attentive and hu- 

v- Do 

morous observer, will be so much the more 
unusual and unexpected, when it is held up 
to our notice. Of all the fashionable dresses 
which have been successively introduced in our 
own days, there are few which did not in some 
respect appear more or less ridiculous upon 
their first introduction. This appearance, 
however, and sometimes also the remembrance 
of it, quickly goes off in consequence of fami- 
liarity. Accordingly, when the satirist points 
out in these familiar cases the care and con- 
trivance with which even the most civilized 
of the human race incommode and deform 
themselves by the very means which they devise 
for convenience and ornament, we are enter- 
tained with the exhibition of absurdity, where 
we did not think of looking for it, nor were ac- 
customed to remark it. And similar obser- 
£ B . 2 



372 ESSAY IX. 

vations are applicable to some of the prevailing 
opinions of all classes of mankind. Pope, 
Swift, and Arbuthnot, not to mention several 
other men of genius, both in ancient and mo- 
dern times, have shown, in a variety of instances, 
that very unusual and unexpected contrasts of 
the most ludicrous nature may be suggested in 
the representation of the most familiar objects 
and common events. And no author can ar- 
rive at eminence in ludicrous compositions, if 
he does not possess sufficient information and 
ingenuity, to combine such ideas of dignity and 
meanness as we do not frequently attend to, and 
would not readily expect to find confronting 
and allied to each other. 

But even such combinations will lose much 
of their effect, and may often become positively 
disagreeable, when they are impertinently in- 
troduced ; that is to say, when either by shock- 
ing our feelings, or distracting our attention, 
they disturb the particular impression which 
ought to be produced at the time. On the other 
hand, when they serve to enliven this impres- 
sion, they appear to the greatest advantage, and 



ON THE LUDICROUS. 373 

operate with their full effect. That vivacity of 
mind, which appears to be so essentially requi- 
site before we can be sensible of the ludicrous* 
will in this case be greatly quickened by our 
admiration of the author's ingenuity, in pro- 
moting his objects by means which would not 
have readily occurred to ourselves, or which we 
should not have readily discovered how to apply 
to the purpose. 

Thus Butler in Hudibras describes the dawn 
of the morning in the following manner : 

And now had Phoebus in the lap 
Of Thetis taken out his nap, 
When, like a lobster boil'd, the morn 
From black to red began to turn. 

Here we are, in the first place, surprised by 
a very unexpected affinity which the author has 
discovered between the dawn of the morning 
and a boiled lobster. But we are also amused 
by the contrast between the meanness of this 
passage, and the elegance of those descriptions 
of Aurora in the celebrated epic poets, of which 
it is evidently intended as a burlesque imi- 



B74 - ESSAY IX. 

tation. And thus we see, that the ludicrous 
combination of images, however wild it may 
appear, is aptly introduced to keep up the gene- 
ral idea of a mock-heroic poem, so that Hudi- 
bras may figure throughout as a companion to 
iEneas and Achilles. 

Another very ludicrous combination is intro- 
duced for a more particular purpose in the fol- 
lowing verses, which describe the ignominious 
chastisement inflicted on Whackum : 

Hudibras gave him a twitch, 
As quick as lightning, in the breech ; 
Just in the place where honour's lodg'd, 
As wise philosophers have judgM ; 
Because a kick in that part more 
Hurts honour, than deep wounds before. 

Here the poor fortune-teller's clerk appears in a 
very whimsical view, from the near relation 
which is discovered between his posteriors and 
his honour, inasmuch as the former are most 
unexpectedly, but most philosophically, demon- 
strated to be the seat of the latter. And this 
ludicrous demonstration appears with the utmost 
propriety in a work, the great design of which 



ON THE LUDICROUS. 375 

is to expose the absurd logic and metaphysics 
which infected the philosophy and theology of 
those fanatical times. 

The observations which have been made with 
regard to what is requisite for excellence in the 
ludicrous, may be shortly expressed in this 
manner, that the composition ought to be en- 
livened by wit.- For wit consists in combining 
apparently incongruous objects, by means of 
unexpected relations, so as to render a com- 
position or conversation more amusing, and yet 
so as to promote, or at least not to injure, the 
impression, whicli ought to be produced at the 
time. 

These two limitations, although not men- 
tioned in any of the general accounts of wit, 
which I have seen, appear to be necessary to 
the definition of the term in the sense in which 
it is now employed. The revolution of a planet 
and the fall of a stone are things which at first 
view appear extremely incongruous, but which 
Sir Isaac Newton combined most intimately by 
means of a very unexpected analogy. But al- 
though this combination might be considered 



376 ESSAY IX. 

as an instance of wit according to the sense 
in which this word is employed by some of our 
older writers, yet the Principia certainly would 
not at present be quoted as a witty perform- 
ance, inasmuch as the author has combined the 
incongruous objects, not to amuse his readers 
with an occasional sport of fancy, but to explain 
the system of the universe. And in general 
wit is distinguished from invention in the arts or 
sciences by the very different purposes, to 
which the combinations are applied. On the 
other hand, we do not consider as a man 
of wit every person, who may surprise or even 
divert us by odd combinations ; but we reserve 
that name for him, who has the ingenuity to 
introduce them aptly, so as to incorporate 
easily with the conversation or composition. 
At the same time poetical fancy is distinguished 
from wit by this circumstance, that the poet, 
without being limited to strange and unthought 
of combinations, ought to admit none but such 
as either adorn his subject, or render it more 
affecting. 

The distinction between the ludicrous and 



ON THE LUDICROUS. 377 

the witty is also evident. For, in the first 
place, although, in either case, there is required 
an unexpected combination of incongruous 
ideas, it is implied in wit, that the combinations 
should not only be singularly unusual, but also 
both formed and applied with skill. And, in 
the second place, while wit may take its range 
through incongruous objects of every kind, the 
ludicrous character *is found only in that re- 
markable class, where the contrasted ideas are 
those of dignity and meanness. 

Nor is it in every combination of dignity 
and meanness, that the ludicrous character is 
perceptible. The objects will assume a dif- 
ferent aspect, if, either from their own nature, 
or from the manner, in which they are repre- 
sented, thev awaken our serious emotions be- 
yond a certain degree. Thus nobody laughs 
at Pope's account of that eminent person, 
whom he describes as 

The wisest,, greatest, meanest of mankind. 

Here our admiration and regret are so power- 
fully awakened, as to render us insensible of 



; 378 , ESSAY IX. 

the ludicrous. It is to be observed, however, 
that the ludicrous will become distinctly 
perceptible, if we only check these serious 
emotions., by lowering the tone in which the 
poet has announced this great character, and 
obscuring the splendour in which he had 
placed it : 

At ill-gotten riches, let simpletons gibe ; 
Philosopher Bacon could pocket a bribe. 

The effect of the serious emotions in con- 
trolling our laughter appears, at first sight, 
to degrade ludicrous compositions into a very 
low rank, as incapable of serving any useful 
purpose. But, for my own part, I cannot 
think it a matter of small utility, to afford an 
innocent amusement for enlivening the hours of 
solitude or weariness. These compositions, 
however, are frequently productive of higher 
effects, which not only render them more 
valuable, but also increase the vivacity of our 
amusement. For it cannot be denied, and 
various examples have been produced in the 
course of the foregoing investigation, that, at 



ON THE LUDICROUS. 379 

least, they may serve to expose our slighter 
absurdities and follies. And even in this de- 
partment, humble as some persons are apt to 
conceive it, services may be performed to so- 
ciety of no inconsiderable importance. 

For in how many cases does it happen, 
that some failing, which is prevented by the 
better dispositions from influencing the conduct 
on serious occasions, impairs very sensibly the 
comfort of the person infected with it, abates 
the respect which is due to his virtues, and is 
the source of frequent vexation to his neigh- 
bours ! How happy, for example, would it be, 
both for ourselves and our families, and all 
who are exposed to our company, if we could 
be cured of our wearisome loquacity, or our 
impertinent curiosity, or importunate officious- 
ness, or impatience of contradiction, or self- 
conceit when we are courted, or peevishness 
when we are neglected ! These, and various 
other foibles, even when they do not go so far 
as to assume the odious name of vices, yet 
not unfrequently produce, directly or indirectly, 
very poignant feelings, both to ourselves and 



380 ESSAY IX. 

others. And, although each particular distress 
may be transient, and slight perhaps in itself, 
yet it may be so often repeated, as to amount 
to a grievous sum. It ought also to be re- 
membered, that these trials of our patience 
generally occur in situations where we look for 
the enjoyment of life, or at least for relaxation 
from our cares ; and from this cause, and also, 
independently of this cause, from the trivial 
nature of the circumstances themselves, we are 
not so apt to prepare or to exert ourselves 
for bearing them with composure. Thus no 
inconsiderable portion of the plagues of life 
would be removed, if the slighter absurdities 
and follies of mankind were corrected ; and 
it will readily be admitted, that for this pur- 
pose ridicule is more effectual than serious 
admonition. 

There is also another department, in which 
the ludicrous has been successfully employed 
for a very useful purpose; to expose those 
perversions of the understanding, which have 
led men to waste so much time and labour, 
and sometimes so much learning and ingenuity, 



ON THE LUDICROUS. 381 

in frivolous* or misconceived, or unattainable 
pursuits. The memoirs and speculations of that 
multifarious philosopher, Martinus Scriblerus, 
are admirable specimens of this application of 
the ludicrous. And it is much to be regretted, 
that he does not revive to enlighten the world 
with his profound lucubrations on the disco- 
veries of the present day : such as Animal 
Magnetism ; or the Metallic Tractors ; or the 
practicability of travelling under water, and of 
taking the command of the winds out of the 
hands of the witches 5* or the probability that 
our posterity may see the plough obedient to 
the mind of the farmer, without the expensive 
intermediate agency of a ploughboy and horses ;f 
or the indefinite perfectibility and indefinite 
longevity of man, to the utter confusion of 
lawyers, priests, and physicians. J 

But may not ridicule be employed with pro- 
priety and effect on still more important 

* See Darwin's Botanic Garden, part I. 
f See Godwin's Treatise on Political Justice. 
1 The late Marquis de Condorcet published an Essay on 
this subject. See also Godwin on Political Justice. 



382 ESSAY IX. 

occasions ? For, if the principles in the former 
part of the essay be just, there is nothing 
which prevents our laughter at the more serious 
errors and crimes of mankind, except our 
concern for their effects, or abhorrence of 
their depravity. Now, is it either impossible, 
or is it, in every case, improper for an author, 
to throw the graver parts of his subject so 
much into the back-ground of his picture, and 
to touch them so slightly, while, at the same 
time, he places the absurdity of folly and 
guilt in so glaring a light, that we shall be 
forced to laugh at those very objects, which, 
under a different management, would produce 
the most serious emotions ? 

There can be no doubt, that the thing is 
possible, for it has often been done ; nor does 
there appear any reason to prohibit, however 
proper it may be to regulate, this additional 
method of discountenancing error and vice. 
Argument and admonition, restraint and pu- 
nishment, are, indeed, the most direct reme- 
dies : but restraint and punishment, in a 
thousand cases, it is not in human power 



ON THE LUDICROUS. 383 

to inflict ; and, at any rate, all gentle means 
should be employed to prevent, as far as 
possible, the necessity of these harsher cor- 
rections. And many persons are terrified by 
ridicule, who lend a deaf ear to argument ; 
nor is it less difficult to bear the laughter, than 
the reproaches of the world. Few serious dis- 
courses are so well calculated as the Voyage 
to Lilliput, for reminding us how often the 
most contemptible trifles are wrought up by 
human folly into objects of the most serious 
importance ; and for checking that low pride 
and selfish ambition, which are so apt to cor- 
rupt the powerful, and which, in all nations, 
and under all forms of government, have some- 
times led them to the most atrocious as well 
as the vilest crimes. Nor will it be denied, 
that the admirable satire of Hudibras con- 
tributed greatly to discredit that mixture of 
hypocrisy and fanaticism, of worldly ambition 
and spiritual pride, which, in those days, 
perverted the purest and most pacific religion 
into an engine of cruel and unhallowed policy ; 
which, after the parliament had it fairly in their 



384 ESSAY IX. 

offer and in their power to establish the most ef- 
fectual restraints against the abuse of the royal 
prerogative, spread the horrors of civil war 
over a happy land, and reared a military des- 
potism on the ruins of the throne. This was 
the millennium of the puritanical saints. But, 
if Butler had lived in our days, he would have 
found a subject still more worthy of his powers, 
in the millennium of the new-fangled philoso- 
phers, the revolution of France, which began 
in rebellion to Lewis the sixteenth, and ended 
in submission to General Bonaparte $ that 
strangest of all strange events, where we have 
seen jumbled in one monstrous group the most 
remorseless villains, and the most self-€onceited 
dupes, the most hellish atrocities, and the most 
nonsensical buffooneries, the deepest of all tra- 
gedies, and the absurdest of all farces. 

This extensive and most important depart- 
ment of the ludicrous, in which the absurdities 
of mankind are exposed to ridicule, is distin- 
guished in our language by the name of the 
humorous. In other departments, the ludi- 
crous as only a trifling amusement, which soon 



ON THE LUDICROUS. 885 

grows insipid • but humour possesses a singular 
vivacity and interest from the exhibition of our 
fellow-creatures. It acquires, too, a great ad- 
ditional charm, when it is rendered subservient 
to useful purposes; and we have just seen, 
what has been also exemplified in the former 
part of the essay, that it has naturally a tend- 
ency to promote happiness and virtue. For 
everything, even in the intellectual or moral 
character, which is inconsistent with what 
should be looked for in a rational and ac- 
countable being, is naturally ridiculous, though 
our laughter may be restrained by more power- 
ful emotions. And those authors perform a 
very important service to society, who make 
men feel, that he, who cherishes even the slighter 
and more pardonable follies and foibles, will 
expose himself to the ridicule of his fellow- 
creatures; and that he, who perseveres in seri- 
ous guilt, will become the object of their alter- 
nate abhorrence and derision. 

When so ample and diversified a field is open 
to ludicrous writers, in which they may deserve 
the gratitude, and promote the best interests of 

% c 



386 ESSAY IX. 

mankind, it is to be lamented, that some of them 
have perverted their talents to the most improper 
purposes. There is, in particular, one abuse* 
against which we ought always to be on our 
guard. It is similar to what is known in paint- 
ing by the name of caricature ; where each 
feature of the picture resembles the correspond- 
ing feature of the original, but where so strange 
a disproportion between the features is intro- 
duced into the picture, as to divert us with its 
deformity, or with the absurdity which it ex- 
presses. In the same manner, any particular 
disposition, however respectable or amiable 
in itself, may yet be represented in so great 
excess, or so unseasonably displayed, that 
it shall appear extremely absurd. And the 
reader, not attending to the real state of the 
matter, that he is laughing at the excess, or at 
the unseasonable display of the good dispo- 
sition, not at the disposition itself, may be led 
to regard even virtue as ridiculous. It is thus 
that economy, temperance, prudence, piety, 
patriotism, and disinterestedness, are so much 
laughed out of countenance among thoughtless 



ON THE LUDICROUS. 38? 

or half- thinking men, at different periods of 
their life. 

We have still to mention another abuse, 
which consists in giving a laughable appear- 
ance to objects of real dignity, worth, or im- 
portance, by grouping them with such as are 
mean or contemptible. Thus it is not uncom- 
mon with buffoons, who are incapable of any 
higher species of drollery, to employ on the 
gravest subjects the most vulgar expressions, or 
such as either directly or indirectly suggest low 
and perhaps filthy ideas ; endeavouring by this 
means to degrade in our imagination those 
things which are in themselves the most affect- 
ing and sublime. In like manner, it is easy, and 
is too often practised, to raise a laugh against 
the worthiest character. For this purpose any 
of his weaknesses (and who is without weak- 
nesses both moral and intellectual ?), or any un- 
seemly circumstance in his situation or appear- 
ance, is presented in the most glaring light, 
while, at the same time, his real worth is not 
brought forward in its full splendour to over- 
power the ludicrous effect. 



388 ESSAY IX. 

In fact, in the present condition of our fallen 
nature, and in this strange world, where we are 
appointed to pass the first sixty or seventy 
years of our existence, the great and the little, 
the heavenly and the earthly, the angel and the 
reptile, are so variously connected, and blended, 
and united, that a buffoon can find no difficulty 
to expose whatever is most important and sa- 
cred to the laughter of the unprincipled or giddy. 
Nothing more is required than presumption 
enough to sport with his subject ; that is to say, 
to touch slightly on those objects, which would 
otherwise produce too serious impressions, 
while he expatiates on the low or despicable 
ideas, with which they may happen to be as- 
sociated. It is obvious, for example, how ma- 
ny whimsical representations any person, who 
had impiety enough, might easily give of the 
superintending care of Heaven for so pitiful 
an animal as man, who is engaged by the 
necessities of his nature in so many paltry con- 
cerns : or how oddly he may represent the 
presumption of such a feeble, shivering, trifling 
creature, in claiming kindred with the angels, 



ON THE LUDICROUS. 389 

and hoping one day to join their society. It is 
easy to conceive, that persons, who have the 
firmest belief in a future state, may yet be 
tempted to laugh, when the drunken fellow 
in the play comes across their thoughts, who 
called out to his comrades, as they were threat- 
ening to put to death a poor knight of the 
needle, to stop a little before they made the 
tailor immortal. 

But it is highly improper to sport with those 
important and awful concerns ; or even to ac- 
custom ourselves to ridicule the present con- 
dition of man. And Swift ought not to escape 
without severe reprehension, who, with a hard 
heart and sacrilegious hand, tore away the veil, 
with which the modest pride and the good sense 
of cultivated nations cover the nakedness of 
the filthy despicable yahoo; that decent veil, 
which enables us to contemplate with greater 
complacency and respect, and to cultivate with 
greater ardour, the graces, the talents, and the 
virtues of our nature. 

But although we ought to detest those com- 
positions, where the author endeavours to cor- 



390 ESSAY IX. 

rupt our imagination by ludicrously associating 
what is great, worthy, important, or excellent, 
with mean or contemptible ideas ; yet we ought 
not to be ungrateful to those men of fancy, who, 
in employing their wit and humour to furnish 
one of our most agreeable recreations, consult 
at the same time our improvement and comfort $ 
who not only correct with pleasantry our awk- 
wardnesses, and our less serious follies and , 
foibles, but who even execute the stern office of 
censor in a sportful, yet not upon that account 
less effectual manner, exposing wickedness as 
the greatest of all absurdities, and teaching us 
not only to abhor it, but to laugh it to scorn* 



THE END. 



J. M'Creery, Printer, 
Black-Horse Court, London, 



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